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SIMMS’ WORKS 


GUY RIVERS 


RICHARD HURD IS 


3y 

%. Gilmore Simms 

• :■ ii 


■\U 

A. G. Armstrong and Son 
New York 
1882 








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* 

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CHARLES R CARROLL, Esq. 


OP SOUTH CAROLINA. 


My Dear Carroll.— 

The task of revising my earlier writings, for a new and 
uniform edition of my works, brings naturally back to memory, 
and recalls, with vivid effect, the experiences of my youth, the 
agreeable and the disagreeable, the hopeful and discouraging, 
which I knew when they were severally written. In this 
labor, none of these works occasions more lively reminiscences 
than this novel of Guy Rivers, first published twenty years 
ago, and then dedicated to you. It was then that I commenced 
a professional career in literature which has been wholly un¬ 
broken since; and, in its reperusal, I retrace, with a sadden¬ 
ing satisfaction, the events, public and personal, which made 
for us an almost mutual life at that period. Little, then, did 
either of us foresee or conjecture the changes which Providence 
had in store for both. Then we rode and ran together—read, 
and mused, and wrote together—and,, in a vague and misty 
light of the fancy—the Indian summer of the soul—seeing 
nothing certainly of our future, yet hoping much, we indulged 
in our several dreams—which were scarcely several—which, 
in fact, were nearly entertained in common;—confiding in our 



DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


£ 

youth — in the sky and sunshine — and brooding little upon 
those gradual developments of the coming time, which were to 
bring with them such a world of change. Then we were law¬ 
yers and politicians upon a small scale : — lawyers, with quite 
too little devotion to Themis to win many of her favors ; — pol¬ 
iticians, with a too small knowledge of men to make politics a 
profitable investment; and, more amusing still, politicians with 
at least one conclusive argument against every hope of per¬ 
sonal progress, that we both entertained a wild fancy of patri¬ 
otism— dreaming that our little world needed reformation, and 
that we were, in some degree, the very persons allotted to put 
the house of state in order ! 

1 suppose, by this time, you are quite as well satisfied as 
myself, that we were somewhat mistaken ; and that our poor 
little, world of home, however needing reformation, was yet 
very far from being in that very bad state in which our youth¬ 
ful patriotism fancied that she groaned. At all events, we both 
discovered that she had quite too many self-sacrificing patriots, 
in whose eyes the toils of office had no terrors, to render ne¬ 
cessary any services or sacrifices of ours. One lesson, besides, 
we have both learned from the experience of those days. We 
have seen that the mere government of a state has but little 
power to endanger the securities of any people so long as so¬ 
ciety is true to itself; that society is, in fact, the only safe 
guaranty for government; and that, so long as a community 
remains decently firm in its morals, pure enough to submit to 
no outrage of propriety, energetic enough to prosecute its toils 
of progress without looking back, having a sturdy zeal in the 
prosecution of common objects, and manhood enough to adhere 
with determination to the objects avowed; just so long will it 
remain secure against the vagaries of mere politicians. We 
need never despair, in short, of the safety of any society which 
is working, honest and courageous. Government may annoy 
and afflict such a people; may harass their minds, and, in 



DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


9 


borne degree retard tlieir successes; but can neither destroy 
their fortunes, nor usurp their liberties. After some twenty- 
five .years of active observation, a looker-on rather than a 
sharer in the strife, I have come to the conclusion that politi¬ 
cians rarely destroy anything—but themselves and one another! 
They supersede each other—succeed each other—as the sparks 
fly upward—doing a little mischief while they remain—leaving 
an unpleasant smell behind them when they depart — but exer¬ 
cising just as little influence upon the world’s progress as the fly 
upon the wagon-wheel! Society, however unconsciously, sucks 
out the little sweet that they possess, along with the sour and the 
bitter, and then flings away the skin, with as little heed as we 
do that of the orange, after we have drawn from it all its juices ! 
In giving up the profession of patriotism, therefore, we are 
both consoled with the conviction that our little world is, at no 
time, in much danger from the machinations of little politicians. 

I need not remind you that the fruit of our first connection 
with the political struggles of our youth, was fatal to our per¬ 
sonal prospects in such a career. The final overthrow of the 
party with' which we were allied, was a perpetual closing of 
the doors of public life to us. I say perpetual, though, truth 
to speak, we were only under the ban some few years, and the 
“era of good feelings,” in process of time, was the natural 
result of the necessity for a new political organization. But 
five years lost to a young politician, might as well be an eter¬ 
nity ! To remain, for that period, in waiting upon the benches 
of equal hope and mortification, would wear out the inexpres¬ 
sibles of the best patriot living. It would argue, besides, a 
degree of stolidity to which I had not the slightest pretension. 
With a few sighs, therefore, not so profound as those of Othello, 
I abandoned the profession of the patriot and politician. My 
occupation, for the time, was gone; for, cut off from politics, I 
was equally cut off from law. The prejudices which a young 
beginner incurs in politics, will necessarily follow him into the 

I* 


10 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


courts where his talents have been untried. Besides, I had 
never heartily embraced the profession—had never studied 
eon amove — and, after two years wasted in the dreary life of a 
political editor, I was not in training for the resumption of the 
severe and systematic methods which the law demands of its 
votaries. Literature was my only refuge, as it had been my 
first love, and, as I fancied, my proper vocation; and “ Guy 
Livers,” the first volume of which was written before I was of 
age, was the first of my regular novels. 

To you, my dear Carroll, who watched my early beginnings 
with so much friendly interest, I need not say that “ Guy Liv¬ 
ers”— crude of plan, in many respects — awkward, in conse¬ 
quence of the measured and stiltish style of an unpractised 
hand—with many faults of taste, and some, perhaps, of moral 
— was yet singularly successful with the public. Its rapid 
popularity, however unmerited, seemed to justify me in the 
new profession I had chosen; and the young lawyer and the 
patriot politician were naturally very soon sunk in the novelist 
and romancer. 

Since then—“ I am afraid to think of what I’ve done !” 

It is not a subject upon which I can properly expatiate; but 
it will be permitted to me, regarding “Guy Livers,” as my 
first deliberate attempt in prose fiction, to linger over its pages, 
and in an address to you, with more than ordinary parental 
interest. I could wish now — were this proper or possible — to 
remould the whole of the first half of the story, both as respects 
plan and style; for this portion was written under a false, or, 
rather, an imperfect, conception of what was demanded by such 
a work. The reader will, no doubt, readily detect the differ¬ 
ence of manner which exists between the first and latter half 
of the story. But nothing now can be done toward the amend¬ 
ment of the halting portions, except to trim and pare away 
some of the cumbering foliage;—lop off, here and there, the 
truant twigs and branches, dear away the excess of under- 


DEDICATORY EPTSTLE. 11 

growth, and smoothe, in some degree, the easy passage of the 
reader through its over-massed intricacies. 

No one can, better than myself, detect the mistakes and ex¬ 
cesses ol this performance. I can now see where new trees 
might have been set out with profit; where finer effects might 
be produced by changing the face of the landscape and con¬ 
ducting the spectator to the survey of the scene from other 
points of vision. But the mind, however willing and resolute, 
revolts at the alteration,whatever its promise of improvement. 
The labor of such a performance grows absolutely terrible even 
to contemplate; and, in very degree with the ability of the 
artist to repair or improve the ancient structure, is his capacity 
to design and build anew. It is also very questionable wheth¬ 
er any attempt to amend or correct the errors in an old plan 
might not expose the whole fabric to the censure of rude and 
wretched joinery. Any person who has undertaken the re¬ 
pairs of an old house, without duly knowing, at the outset, 
what is exactly wanted, will readily conceive how much more 
serious must be the task of remodelling a work of art, in sup¬ 
plying defects in the original conception, and making such 
alterations in the finish, as would be demanded by improving 
tastes, a more matured experience, and higher aims in the 
mind of the artist. Something has been done — nay, a great 
ieal, I may say—toward the pruning of the style—the re¬ 
moval of the rank undergrowth, the verbiage, the excrescences, 
and supplying the deficient finish. The reader would perhaps 
be surprised by a comparison of the new with the old edition 
in this respect. Something, too, I have done toward the elab¬ 
oration of the idea, and the better development of occasional 
scenes. More than this could not be attempted. With the 
hope, my dear Carroll, that what has been done will suffice to 
render “ Guy Rivers” more acceptable than before to the pub¬ 
lic and yourself, I surrender him to your hands. May the pe¬ 
rusal of the story now, prove as grateful to you as it did twenty 


12 


DEDICATORY EPISTLE. 


years ago, and recall to you as vividly as to me, those days of 
grateful struggle and not less grateful illusion. 

With ancient regard, 

Ever faithfully yours, &c., 

W. OiF.MORE Simms. 

Woodland* S. C 
November 1% 185 


GUY RIVERS 


CHAPTER I. 

THE STLR LE PROSPECT AND THE LONELY 'I RAVELLER. 

Our scene lies in the upper part of the state of Georgia, a 
region at this time fruitful of dispute, as being within the Cher¬ 
okee territories. The route to which we now address our atten¬ 
tion, lies at nearly equal distances between the main trunk of 
the Chatahoochie and that branch of it which bears the name 
of the Chestatee, after a once formidable, but now almost forgot¬ 
ten tribe. Here, the wayfarer finds himself lost in a long reach 
of comparatively barren lands. The scene is kept from monot¬ 
ony, however, by the undulations of the earth, and by frequent 
hills which sometimes aspire to a more elevated title. The 
tract is garnished with a stunted growth, a dreary and seem¬ 
ingly half-withered shrubbery, broken occasionally by clumps 
of slender pines that raise their green tops abruptly, and as if 
out of place, against the sky. 

The entire aspect of the scene, if not absolutely blasted, 
wears at least a gloomy and discouraging expression, which sad¬ 
dens the soul of the most careless spectator. The ragged ran¬ 
ges of forest, almost untrodden by civilized man, the thin and 
feeble undergrowth, the unbroken silence, the birdless thickets, 
— all seem to indicate a peculiarly sterile destiny. One thinks, 
as he presses forward, that some gloomy Fate finds harbor 
in the place. All around, far as the eye may see, it looks 
in vain for relief in variety. There still stretch the dreary 
wastes, the dull woods, the long sandy tracts, and the rude lulls 



14 


GUY RIVERS. 


that send out no voices, and hang out no lights for the encour¬ 
agement of the civilized man. Such is the prospect that meets 
the sad and searching eyes of the wayfarer, as they dart on 
every side seeking in vain for solace. 

Yet, though thus barren upon the surface to the eye, the 
dreary region in which wc now find ourselves, is very far from 
wanting in resources, such as not only woo the eyes, but win 
the very soul of civilization. We are upon the very threshold 
of the gold country, so famous for its prolific promise of the pre¬ 
cious metal; far exceeding, in the contemplation of the know¬ 
ing, the lavish abundance of Mexico and of Peru, in their palm¬ 
iest and most prosperous condition. Nor, though only the 
fronticr and threshold as it were to these swollen treasures, was 
the portion of country now under survey, though bleak, sterile, 
and uninviting, wanting in attractions of its own. It contained 
indications which denoted the fertile regions, nor wanted en¬ 
tirely in the precious mineral itself. Much gold had been 
already gathered, with little labor, and almost upon its surface; 
and it was perhaps only because of the limited knowledge then 
had of its real wealth, and of its close proximity to a more pro¬ 
ductive territory, that it had been suffered so long to remain 
unexamined. 

Nature, thus, in a section of the world seemingly unblessed 
with her bounty, and all ungarnished with her fruits and flow¬ 
ers, seemed desirous of redeeming it from the curse of barren¬ 
ness, by storing its bosom with a product, which, only of use 
to the world in its conventional necessities, has become, in ac¬ 
cordance with the self-creating wants of society, a necessity 
itself; and however the bloom and beauty of her summer deco¬ 
rations may refresh the eye of the enthusiast, it would here 
seem that, with an extended policy, she had planted treasures, 
for another and a greatly larger class, far more precious to the 
eyes of hope and admiration than all the glories and beauties in 
her sylvan and picturesque abodes. Her very sterility and soli¬ 
tude, when thus found to indicate her mineral treasures, rise 
themselves into attractions; and the perverted heart, striving 
with diseased hopes, and unnatural passions, gladly welcomes 
the wilderness, without ever once thinking how to make it 
blossom like the rose. 


THE STERILE PROSPECT AND THE LONELY TRAVELLER. 15 


Cheerless in its exterior, however, the season of the year was 
>ne — a mild afternoon in May—to mollify and sweeten the 
severe and sterile aspect of the scene. Sun and sky do their 
work of beauty upon earth, without heeding the ungracious re¬ 
turn which she may make; and a rich warm sunset flung over 
the hills and woods a delicious atmosphere of beauty, burnish¬ 
ing the dull heights and the gloomy pines with golden hues, far 
more bright, if far less highly valued by men, than the metallic 
treasures which lay beneath their masses. Invested by the 
lavish bounties of the sun, so soft, yet bright, so mild, yet beau¬ 
tiful, the waste put on an appearance of sweetness, if it did not 
rise into the picturesque. The very uninviting and unlovely 
character of the landscape, rendered the sudden effect of tin; 
sunset doubly effective, though, in a colder moment, the specta¬ 
tor might rebuke his own admiration with question of that lav¬ 
ish and indiscriminate waste which could clothe, with such 
glorious hues, a region so little worthy of such bounty ; even as 
we revolt at sight of rich jewels about the brows and neck of 
age and ugliness. The solitary group of pines, that, here and 
there, shot up suddenly like illuminated spires ; — the harsh and 
repulsive hills, that caught, in differing gradations, a glow and 
glory from the same bright fountain of light and beauty ; — even 
the low copse, uniform of height, and of dull hues, not yet quite 
caparisoned for spring, yet sprinkled with gleaming eyes, and 
limned in pencilling beams and streaks of fire; these, all, ap¬ 
peared suddenly to be subdued in mood, and appealed, with a 
freshening interest, to the eye of the traveller whom at midday 
their aspects discouraged only. 

And there is a traveller — a single horseman — who emerges 
suddenly from the thicket, and presses forward, not rapidly, nor 
yet witl the manner of one disposed to linger, yet whose eyes 
take in gratefully the softening influences of that evening sun- 
light. 

In that region, he who travelled at all, at the time of which 
we write, must do so on horseback. It were a doubtful prog¬ 
ress which any vehicle would make over the blind and broken 
paths of that uncultivated realm. Either thus, or on foot, as 
was the common practice with the mountain hunters; men who, 
at seventy years of age, might be found as lithe and active, in 


16 


GUT RIVERS. 


clambering up the lofty summit as if in full possession of the 
winged vigor and impulse of twenty-five. 

Our traveller, on the present occasion, was apparently a mere 
youth. He had probably seen twenty summers — scarcely more. 
Yet his person was tall and well developed; symmetrical and 
manly : rather slight, perhaps, as was proper to his immaturity ; 
but not wanting in what the backwoodsmen call heft. He was 
evidently no milksop, though slight; carried himself with ease 
and grace; and was certainly not only well endowed with bone 
and muscle, but bore the appearance, somehow, of a person not 
unpractised in the use of it. His face was manly like his 
person; not so round as full, it presented a perfect oval to the 
eye; the forehead was broad, high, and intellectual — purely 
white, probably because so well shadowed by the masses of his 
dark brown hair. His eyes were rather small, but dark and 
expressive, and derived additional expression from their large, 
bushy, overhanging brows, which gave a commanding, and, at 
times, a somewhat fierce expression to his countenance. But 
his mouth was small, sweet, exquisitely chiselled, and the lips of 
a ripe, rich color. His chin, full and decided, was in character 
with the nobility of his forehead. The tout ensemble constitu¬ 
ted a fine specimen of masculine beauty, significant at once of 
character and intelligence. 

Our traveller rode a steed which might be considered, even in 
the South, where the passion for fine horses is universal, of the 
choicest parentage. He was blooded, and of Arabian, through 
English, stocks. You might detect his blood at a glance, even 
as you did that of his rider. The beast was large, high, broad- 
chested, sleek of skin, wiry of limb, with no excess of fat, and 
no straggling hair; small ears, a glorious mane, and a great 
lively eye. At once docile and full of life, he trod the earth 
with the firm pace of an elephant, yet with the ease of an ante¬ 
lope ; moving carelessly as in pastime, and as if he bore no sort 
of burden on his back. For that matter he might well do so. 
His rider, though well developed, was too slight to be felt by 
such a creature and a small portmanteau carried all his ward¬ 
robe. Beyond this he had no impedimenta; and to those ac¬ 
customed only to the modes of travel in a more settled and civ¬ 
ilized country—with bag and baggage—the traveller might 


THE STERILE PROSPECT AND THE LONELY TRAVELLER. IT 

have appeared—but for a pair of moderately-sized twisted bar¬ 
rels which we see pocketed on the saddle—rather as a gentleman 
of leisure taking his morning ride, than one already far from 
home and increasing at every step the distance between it and 
himself. From our privilege we make bold to mention, that, 
strictly proportioned to their capacities, the last named appur¬ 
tenances carried each a charge which might have rendered awk¬ 
ward any interruption; and it may not be saying too much if we 
add, that it is not improbable to this portion of his equipage our 
traveller was indebted for that security which had heretofore 
obviated all necessity for their use. They were essentials 
which might or might not, in that wild region, have been put in 
requisition; and the prudence of all experience, in our border 
country, is seldom found to neglect such companionship. 

So much for the personal appearance and the equipment of our 
young traveller. We have followed the usage among novelists, 
and have dwelt thus long upon these details, as we design that 
our adventurer shall occupy no small portion of the reader’s at¬ 
tention. He will have much to do and to endure in the progress 
of this narrative. 

It may be well, in order to the omission of nothing hereafter 
important, to add that he seems well bred to the manege —and 
rode with that ease and air of indolence, which are characteris¬ 
tic of the gentry of the south. His garments were strictly suit¬ 
ed to the condition and custom of the country — a variable cli¬ 
mate, rough roads, and rude accommodations. They consisted of 
a dark blue frock, of stuff not so fine as strong, with pantaloons 
of the same material, all fitting well, happily adjusted to the 
figure of the wearer, yet sufficiently free for any exercise. He 
was booted and spurred, and wore besides, from above the knee 
to the ankle, a pair of buckskin leggins, wrought by the In¬ 
dians, and trimmed, here and there, with beaded figures that 
gave a somewhat fantastic air to this portion of his dress. A 
huge cloak strapped over the saddle, completes our portrait, 
which, at the time of which we write, was that of most travel¬ 
lers along our southern frontiers. We must not omit to state 
that a cap of fur, rather than a fashionable beaver, was also 
the ordinary covering of the head—that of our traveller was 
of a finely-dressed fur, very far superior to the common fox 


18 


our RIVERS. 


skin cap worn by the plain backwoodsmen. It declared, some* 
what for the superior social condition of the wearer, even if his 
general air and carriage did not sufficiently do so. 

Our new acquaintance had, by this time, emerged into one of 
those regions of brown, broken, heathery waste, thinly mottled 
with tree and shrub, which seem usually to distinguish the first 
steppes on the approach to our mountain country. Though un¬ 
dulating, and rising occasionally into hill and crag, the tract 
was yet sufficiently monotonous; rather saddened than relieved 
by the gentle sunset, which seemed to gild in mockery the skel¬ 
eton woods and forests, just recovering from the keen biting 
blasts of a severe and protracted winter. 

Our traveller, naturally of a dreamy and musing spirit, here 
fell unconsciously into a narrow footpath, an old Indian trace, 
and without pause or observation, followed it as if quite indif¬ 
ferent whither it led. He was evidently absorbed in that oc¬ 
cupation— a very unusual one with youth on horseback — 
that “chewing of the cud of sweet and bitter thought”—which 
testifies for premature troubles and still gnawing anxieties of 
soul. His thoughts were seemingly in full unison with the 
almost grave-like stillness and solemn hush of everything 
around him. His spirit appeared to yield itself up entirely to 
the mournful barrenness and uninviting associations,from which 
all but himself, birds and beasts, and the very insects, seemed 
utterly to have departed. The faint hum of a single wood¬ 
chuck, which, from its confused motions, appeared to have 
wandered into an unknown territory, and by its uneasy action 
and frequent chirping, seemed to indicate a perfect knowledge 
of the fact, was the only object which at intervals broke through 
the spell of silence which hung so heavily upon the sense. The 
air of our traveller was that of one who appeared unable, how¬ 
ever desirous he might be, to avoid the train of sad thought 
which such a scene was so eminently calculated to inspire; and, 
of consequence, who seemed disposed, for this object, to call up 
some of those internal resources of one’s own mind and mem¬ 
ory, which so mysteriously bear us away from the present, 
whatever its powers, its pains, or its pleasures, and to carry us 
into a territory of the heart’s own selection. But, whether the 
past, in his case, were more to be dreaded than the present; or 


THE STERILE PROSPECT AND THE LONELY TRAVELLER. 19 

whether it was that there was something in the immediate 
prospect which appealed to sterile hopes, and provoking mem¬ 
ories, it is very certain that our young companion exhibited a 
most singular indifference to the fact that he was in a wild em¬ 
pire of the forest—a wilderness—and that the sun was rapidly 
approaching his setting. The bridle held heedlessly, lay 
loose upon the neck of his steed; and it was only when the 
noble animal, more solicitous about his night’s lodging than his 
rider, or rendered anxious by his seeming stupor, suddenly 
came to a full stand in the narrow pathway, that the youth 
seemed to grow conscious of his doubtful situation, and appear¬ 
ed to shake off his apathy and to look about him. 

He now perceived that he had lost the little Indian pathway 
which he had so long pursued. There was no sign of route or 
road on any side. The prospect was greatly narrowed; he 
was in a valley, and the trees had suddenly thickened around 
him. Certain hills, which his eyes had hitherto noted on the 
right, had disappeared wholly from sight. He had evidently 
deflected greatly from his proper course, and the horizon was 
now too circumscribed to permit him to distinguish any of those 
guiding signs upon which he had relied for his progress. From 
a bald tract he had unwittingly passed into the mazes of a some¬ 
what thickly-growing wood. 

“ Old Bluclier,” he said, addressing his horse, and speaking 
in clear silvery tones — “what have you done, old fellow? 
Whither have you brought us ?” 

The philosophy which tells us, when lost, to give the reins to 
the steed, will avail but little in a region where the horse has 
never been before. This our traveller seemed very well to 
know. But the blame was not chargeable upon Bluclier. lie 
had tacitly appealed to the beast for his direction when suffer¬ 
ing the bridle to fall upon his neck. He was not willing, now, 
to accord to him a farther discretion; and was quite too much 
of the man to forbear any longer the proper exercise of his own 
faculties. With the quickening intelligence in his eyes, and 
the compression of his lips, declaring a resolute will, he pricked 
the animal forward, no longer giving way to those brown mu- 
sings, which, during the previous hour, had not only taken him 
to remote regions but very much out of his way besides. In 


20 


(JUY RIVERS. 


sober earnest, he had lost the way, and, in sober earnest, he set 
about to recover it; but a ten minutes’ farther ride only led 
him to farther involvements; and he paused, for a moment, to 
hold tacit counsel with his steed, whose behavior was very much 
that of one who understands fully his own, and the predicament 
of his master. Our travellertthen dismounted, and, suffering his 
bridle to rest upon the neck of the docile beast, he coursed 
about on all sides, looking close to the earth in hopes to find 
some ancient traces of a pathway. But his search was vain. 
His anxieties increased. The sunlight was growing fainter 
and fainter; and,in spite of the reckless manner, which he still 
wore, you might see a lurking and growing anxiety in his quick 
and restless eye. He was vexed with himself that he had suffered 
his wits to let fall his reins; and his disquiet was but imper¬ 
fectly concealed under the careless gesture and rather philo¬ 
sophic swing of his graceful .person, as, plying his silent way, 
through clumps of brush, and bush, and tree, he vainly peered 
along the earth for the missing traces of the route. He looked 
up for the openings in the tree-tops — he looked west, at the 
rapidly speeding sun, and shook his head at his horse. Though 
bold of heart, no doubt, and tolerably well aw r are of the usual 
backwoods mode of procedure in all such cases of embarrass¬ 
ment, our traveller had been too gently nurtured to affect a 
lodge in the wilderness that night—its very “vast contiguity 
of shade” being anything but attractive in his present mood. 
No doubt, he could have borne the necessity as well as any 
other man, but still he held it a necessity to be avoided if possi¬ 
ble. He had, we are fain to confess, but small passion for that 
“ grassy couch,” and “ leafy bower,” and those other rural feli¬ 
cities, of which your city poets, who lie snug in garrets, are so 
prone to sing; and always gave the most unromantic preference 
to comfortable lodgings and a good roof; so, persevering in his 
search after the pathway, while any prospect of success remained, 
he circled about until equally hopeless and fatigued; then, re¬ 
mounted his steed, and throwing the bridle upon his neck, with 
something of the indifference of despair, he plied his spurs, suffer¬ 
ing the animal to adopt his own course, which we shall see was 
nevertheless interrupted by the appearance of another party upon 
the scene, whose introduction we reserve for another chapter. 


» 


THE ENCOUNTER—THE CHEVALIER DTNDUSTRIE. 21 


CHAPTER II. 

THE ENCO NTER-THE CHEVALIER D’iNDUSTRIE. 

Thus left to himself, the good steed of our traveller set off, 
without hesitation, and with a free step, that promised, at least, 
to overcome space hurriedly, if it attained not the desired des¬ 
tination. The rider did not suffer any of his own doubts to 
mar a progress so confidently begun; and a few minutes car¬ 
ried the twain, horse and man, deeply, as it were, into the very 
bowels of the forest. The path taken by the steed grew every 
moment more and more intricate and difficult of access, and, 
but for the interruption already referred to, it is not impossible 
that a continued course in the same direction, would have 
brought the rider to a full stop from the sheer inaccessibleness 
of the forest. 

The route thus taken lay in a valley which was necessarily 
more fertile, more densely packed with thicket, than the higher 
road which our rider had been pursuing all the day. The 
branches grew more and more close; and, what with the 
fallen trees, the spreading boughs, the undergrowth, and bro¬ 
ken character of the plain, our horseman was fain to leave 
the horse to himself, finding quite enough to do in saving his 
eyes, and keeping his head from awkward contact with over- 
hanging timber. The pace of the beast necessarily sunk into 
a walk. The question with his rider was, in what direction to 
turn, to extricate himself from the mazes into which he had so 
rashly ridden ? While he mused this question, Blucher started 
suddenly with evidently some new and exciting consciousness. 
His ears were suddenly lifted—his eyes -were strained upon 
the copse in front—he halted, as if reluctant to proceed. It 
was evident that his senses had taken in some sights, or sounds, 
which were unusual. 


24 


GUY RIVERS. 


by instinct, that there was some trouble in preparation for him, 
and his teeth were silently clenched together, and his soul 
nerved itself for anticipated conflict. He gazed calmly, how¬ 
ever, though sternly, at the stranger, who appeared nothing 
daunted by the expression in the eyes of the traveller. His 
air was that of quiet indifference, bordering on contempt, as if 
he knew his duties, or his man, and was resolved upon the 
course he was appointed to pursue. When men meet thus, if 
they are persons of even ordinary intelligence, the instincts are 
quick to conceive and act, and the youth was now more assured 
than ever, that the contest awaited him which should try his 
strength. This called up all his resources, and we may infer 
that he possessed them in large degree, from his quiet forbear¬ 
ance and deliberation, even when he became fully sensible of 
the insolence of the person with whom he felt about to grapple. 

As yet, however, judging from other appearances, there was 
no violence meditated by the stranger. He was simply inso¬ 
lent, and he was in the way. He carried no weapons—none 
which met the sight, at least, and there was nothing in his per¬ 
sonal appearance calculated to occasion apprehension. His 
frame was small, his limbs slight, and they did not afford prom¬ 
ise of much activity. His face was not ill favored, though a 
quick, restless black eye, keen and searching, had in it a lurk¬ 
ing malignity, like that of a snake, which impressed the specta¬ 
tor with suspicion at the first casual glance. His nose, long 
and sharp, was almost totally fleshless; the skin being drawn 
so tightly over the bones, as to provoke the fear that any vio¬ 
lent effort would cause them to force their way through the 
frail integument. An untrimmed beard, run wild ; and a pair 
of whiskers so huge, as to refuse all accordance with the thin 
diminutive cheeks which wore them; thin lips, and a sharp 
chin; — completed the outline of a very unprepossessing face, 
which a broad high forehead did not tend very much to improve 
or dignify. 

Though the air of the stranger was insolent, and his manner 
rude, our young traveller was unwilling to decide unfavorably. 
At all events, his policy and mood equally inclined him to 
avoid any proceeding which should precipitate or compel 
violence. 


THE ENCOUNTER — THE CHEVALIER D’INDUSTRIE. 


25 


“ There are many good people in the world*’—so he thought 
— “who are better than they promise; many good Christians, 
whose aspects would enable them to pass, in any crowd, as 
very tolerable and becoming ruffians. This fellow may be one 
of the unfortunate order of virtuous people, cursed with an un¬ 
becoming visage. We will see before we shoot.” 

Thus thought our traveller, quickly, as became his situation. 
He determined accordingly, while foregoing none of his pre¬ 
cautions, to see farther into the designs of the stranger, before 
he resorted to any desperate issues. He replied, accordingly, 
to the requisition of the speaker; the manner, rather than the 
matter of which, had proved offensive. 

“Toll! You ask toll of me? By what right, sir, and for 
whom do you require it ?” 

“Look you, young fellow, I am better able to ask questions 
myself, than to answer those of other people. In respect to 
this matter of answering, my education has been wofully neg¬ 
lected.” 

The reply betrayed some intelligence as well as insolence. 
Our traveller could not withhold the retort. 

“ Ay, indeed ! and in some other respects too, not less im¬ 
portant. if I am to judge from your look and bearing. But you 
mistake your man, let me tell you. I am not the person whom 
you can play your pranks upon with safety, and unless you 
will be pleased to speak a little more respectfully, our parley 
will have a shorter life, and a rougher ending, than you fancy.” 

“ It would scarcely be polite to contradict so promising a 
young gentleman as yourself,” was the response; “ but I am 
disposed to believe our intimacy likely to lengthen, rather 
than diminish. I hate to part over-soon with company that 
talks so well; particularly in these woods, where, unless such a 
chance come about as the present, the lungs of the heartiest 
youth in the land would not be often apt to find the echo they 
seek, though they cried for it at the uttermost pitch of the 
pipe.” 

The look and the language of the speaker were alike sig¬ 
nificant, and the sinister meaning of the last sentence did not 
escape the notice of him to wlioir t was addressed. His reply 
was calm, however, and his mind grew more at ease, more col* 


24 


GUY RIVERS. 


by instinct, that there was some trouble in preparation for him, 
and his teeth were silently clenched together, and his soul 
nerved itself for anticipated conflict. He gazed calmly, how¬ 
ever, though sternly, at the stranger, who appeared nothing 
daunted by the expression in the eyes of the traveller. His 
air was that of quiet indifference, bordering on contempt, as if 
he knew his duties, or his man, and was resolved upon the 
course he was appointed to pursue. When men meet thus, if 
they are persons of even ordinary intelligence, the instincts are 
quick to conceive and act, and the youth was now more assured 
than ever, that the contest awaited him which should try his 
strength. This called up all his resources, and we may infer 
that he possessed them in large degree, from his quiet forbear¬ 
ance and deliberation, even when he became fully sensible of 
the insolence of the person with whom he felt about to grapple. 

As yet, however, judging from other appearances, there was 
no violence meditated by the stranger. He was simply inso¬ 
lent, and he was in the way. He carried no weapons — none 
which met the sight, at least, and there was nothing in his per¬ 
sonal appearance calculated to occasion apprehension. His 
frame was small, his limbs slight, and they did not afford prom¬ 
ise of much activity. His face was not ill favored, though a 
quick, restless black eye, keen and searching, had in it a lurk¬ 
ing malignity, like that of a snake, which impressed the specta¬ 
tor with suspicion at the first casual glance. His nose, long 
and sharp, was almost totally fleshless; the skin being drawn 
so tightly over the bones, as to provoke the fear that any vio¬ 
lent effort would cause them to force their way through the 
frail integument. An untrimmed beard, run wild ; and a pair 
of whiskers so huge, as to refuse all accordance with the thin 
diminutive cheeks which wore them; thin lips, and a sharp 
chin; — completed the outline of a very unprepossessing face, 
which a broad high forehead did not tend very much to improve 
or dignify. 

Though the air of the stranger was insolent, and his manner 
rude, our young traveller was unwilling to decide unfavorably. 
At all events, his policy and mood equally inclined him to 
avoid any proceeding which should precipitate or compel 
violence. 


THE ENCOUNTER — THE CHEVALIER D’INDUSTRIE. 2 b 

“ There are many good people in the world”—so lie thought 
— “who are better than they promise; many good Christians, 
whose aspects would enable them to pass, in any crowd, as 
very tolerable and becoming ruffians. This fellow may be one 
of the unfortunate order of virtuous people, cursed with an un¬ 
becoming visage. We will see before we shoot.” 

Thus thought our traveller, quickly, as became his situation. 
He determined accordingly, while foregoing none of his pre¬ 
cautions, to see farther into the designs of the stranger, before 
he resorted to any desperate issues. He replied, accordingly, 
to the requisition of the speaker; the manner, rather than the 
matter of which, had proved offensive. 

“Toll! You ask toll of me? By what right, sir, and for 
whom do you require it ?” 

“ Look you, young fellow, I am better able to ask questions 
myself, than to answer those of other people. In respect to 
this matter of answering, my education has been wofully neg¬ 
lected.” 

The reply betrayed some intelligence as well as insolence. 
Our traveller could not withhold the retort. 

“Ay, indeed! and in some other respects too, not less im¬ 
portant, if 1 am to judge from your look and bearing. But you 
mistake your man, let me teil you. I am not the person whom 
you can play your pranks upon with safety, and unless you 
will be pleased to speak a little more respectfully, our parley 
will have a shorter life, and a rougher ending, than you fancy.” 

“ It would scarcely be polite to contradict so promising a 
young gentleman as yourself,” was the response; “but I am 
disjiosed to believe our intimacy likely to lengthen, rather 
than diminish. I hate to part over-soon with company that 
talks so well; particularly in these woods, where, unless such a 
chance come about as the present, the lungs of the heartiest 
youth in the land would not be often apt to find the echo they 
seek, though they cried for it at the uttermost pitch of the 
pipe.” 

The look and the language of the speaker were alike sig¬ 
nificant, and the sinister meaning of the last sentence did not 
escape the notice of him to wlioir t was addressed. His reply 
was calm, however, and his mind grew more at ease, more col- 


26 


GUY RIVERS. 


lectetl, witli his growing consciousness of annoyance and dan* 
ger. He answered the stranger in a vein not unlike his own. 

“You are pleased to be eloquent, worthy sir—and, on any 
other occasion, I might not he unwilling to bestow my ear upon 
you; but as I have yet to find my way out of this labyrinth, 
for the use of which, your facetiousness would have me pay a 
tax, I must forego that satisfaction, and leave the enjoyment 
for some better day.” 

“You are well bred, I see, young sir,” was the reply, “and 
this forms an additional reason why I should not desire so soon 
to break our acquaintance. If you have mistaken your road, 
what do you on this? — why are you in this part of the coun¬ 
try, which is many miles removed from any public thorough¬ 
fare V* 

“ By what right do you ask the question ?” was the hurried 
and unhesitating response. “ You are impertinent!” 

“ Softly, softly, young sir. Be not rash, and let me recom¬ 
mend that you be more choice in the adoption of your epithets. 
Impertinent is an ugly word between gentlemen of our habit. 
Touching my right to ask this or that question of young men 
who lose the way, that’s neither here nor there, and is impor¬ 
tant in no way. But, 1 take it, I should have some right in 
this matter, seeing, young sir, that you are upon the turnpike, 
and I am the gate-keeper who must take the toll.” 

A sarcastic smile passed over the lips of the man as he uttered 
the sentence, which was as suddenly succeeded, however, by an 
expression of gravity, partaking of an air of the profoundest 
business. The traveller surveyed him for a moment before he 
replied, as if to ascertain in what point of view properly to un¬ 
derstand his conduct. 

“ Turnpike ! this is something new. I never heard of a turn¬ 
pike and a gate for toll, in a part of the world in which men, or 
honest ones at least, are not yet commonly to bo found. You 
think rather too lightly, my good sir, of my claim to that most 
vulgar commodity called common sense, if you suppose me likely 
to swallow this silly story.” 

“Oh, doubtless—you are a very sagacious young man, I 
make no question,” said the other, with a sneer — “but you’ll 
have to pay the turnpike for all that.” 


THE ENCOUNTER — THE CHEVALIER x. INDUSTRIE. 27 


“ You speak confidently on this point; but, if I am to pay this 
turnpike, at least, I may be permitted to know who is its pro¬ 
prietor.” 

“ To be sure you may. I am always well pleased to satisfy 
the doubts and curiosity of young travellers who go abroad for 
information. I take you to be one of this class.” 

“Confine yourself, if you please, to the matter in hand — I 
grow weary of this chat,” said the youth with a haughty incli¬ 
nation, that seemed to have its effect even upon him with whom 
he spoke. 

“Your question is quickly answered. You have heard of the 
Pony Club — have you not?” 

“ 1 must confess my utter ignorance of such an institution. I 
have never heard even the name before.” 

“You have not — then really it is high time to begin the work 
of enlightenment. You must know, then, that the Pony Club 
is the proprietor of everything and everybody, throughout the 
nation, and in and about this section. It is the king, without 
let or limitation of powers, for sixty miles around. Scarce a 
man in Georgia but pays in some sort to its support—and judge 
and jury alike contribute to its treasuries. Few dispute its au¬ 
thority, as you will have reason to discover, without suffering 
condign and certain punishment; and, unlike the tributaries 
and agents of other powers, its servitors, like myself, invested 
with jurisdiction over certain parts and interests, sleep not in 
the performance of our duties ) but, day and night, obey its dic¬ 
tates, and perform the various, always Laborious, and sometimes 
dangerous functions which it imposes upon us. It finds us in 
men, in money, in horses. It assesses the Cherokees, and they 
yield a tithe, and sometimes a greater proportion of their ponies, 
in obedience to its requisitions. Hence, indeed, the name of the 
club. It relieves young travellers, like yourself, of their small 
change—their sixpences; and when they happen to have a good 
patent lever, such a one as a smart young gentleman like your¬ 
self is very apt to carry about him. it is not scrupulous, but 
helps them of that too, merely by way of pas-time .” 

And the ruffian chuckled in a half-covert manner at his own 
pun. 

« T uly, a well-conceived sort of sovereignty, and doubtless, 


28 


GUY RIVERS. 


sufficiently well served, if I may infer from the representative 
before me. You must do a large business in this way, most 
worthy sir.” 

4 ‘ Why, that we do, and your remark reminds me that I have 
quite as little time to lose as yourself. You now understand, 
young sir, the toll you have to pay, and the proprietor who 
claims it.” 

“Perfectly—perfectly. You will not suppose mo dull again, 
most candid keeper of the Pony Turnpike. But have you made 
up your mind, ill earnest, to relieve me of such trifling encum¬ 
brances as those you have just mentioned V* 

“ I should be strangely neglectful of the duties of my station, 
not to speak of the discourtesy of such a neglect to yourself, 
were I to do otherwise; always supposing you burdened with 
such encumbrances. I put it to yourself, whether such would 
not be the effect of my omission.” 

“ It most certainly would, most frank and candid of all the 
outlaws. Your punctiliousness on this point of honor entitles 
you, in my mind, to an elevation above and beyond all others 
of your profession. I admire the grace of your manner, in the 
commission of acts which the more tame and temperate of our 
kind are apt to look upon as irregular and unlovely. You, I 
see, have the true notion of the thing.” 

The ruffian looked with some doubt upon the youth—inqui¬ 
ringly, as if to account in some way for the singular coolness, 
not to say contemptuous scornfulness,of his replies and manner. 
There was something, too, of a searching malignity in his glance, 
that seemed to recognise in his survey features which brought 
into activity a personal emotion in his own bosom, not at vari¬ 
ance, indeed, with the craft he was pursuing, but fully above 
and utterly beyond it. Dismissing, however, the expression, he 
continued in the manner and tone so tacitly adopted between 
the parties. 

“ I am heartily glad, most travelled young gentleman, that 
your opinion so completely coincides with my own, since it as¬ 
sures me I shall not be compelled, as is sometimes the case in 
the performance of my duties, to offer any rudeness to one 
seemingly so well taught as yourself. Knowing the relation¬ 
ship between us so fully, you can have no reasonable objection 


THE ENCOUNTER — THE CHEVALIER D’INDUSTRIEi. 29 


to conform quietly to all my requisitions, and yield the toll- 
keeper his dues.” 

Our traveller had been long aware, in some degree, of the 
kind of relationship between himself and his companion; but, 
relying on his defences, and perhaps somewhat too much on 
his own personal capacities of defence, and, possibly, something 
curious to see how far the love of speech in his assailant might 
carry him in a dialogue of so artificial a character, he forbore as 
yet a resort to violence. He found it excessively difficult, how¬ 
ever, to account for the strange nature of the transaction so far 
as it had gone; and the language of the robber seemed so in¬ 
consistent with his pursuit, that, at intervals, he was almost led 
to doubt whether the whole was not the clever jest of some coun¬ 
try sportsman, who, in the guise of a levy er of contributions upon 
the traveller, would make an acquaintance, such as is frequent 
in the South, terminating usually in a ride to a neighboring 
plantation, and pleasant accommodations so long as the stranger 
might think proper to avail himself of them. 

If, on the other hand, the stranger was in reality the ruffian 
he represented himself, he knew not how to account for his de¬ 
lay in the assault—a delay, to the youth’s mind, without an 
object—unless attributable to a temper of mind like that of 
Robin Hood, and coupled in the person before him, as in that 
of the renowned king of the outlaws, with a peculiar freedom 
and generosity of habit, and a gallantry and adroitness which, 
in a different field, had made him a knight worthy to follow and 
fight for Baldwin and the Holy Cross. Our young traveller 
was a romanticist , and all of these notions came severally into 
his thoughts. Whatever might have been the motives of con¬ 
duct in the robber, who thus audaciously announced himself the 
member of a club notorious on the frontiers of Georgia and 
among the Cherokees for its daring outlawries, the youth deter¬ 
mined to. keep up the game so long as it continued such. After 
a brief pause, he replied to the above politely-expressed demand 
in the following language : — 

« Your request, most unequivocal sir, would seem but reason 
able ; and so considering it, I have bestowed due reflection upon 
it. Unhappily, however, for the Pony Club and its worthy rep¬ 
resentative, I am quite too poorly provided with worldly wealth 


30 


GUY RIVERS. 


rat this moment to part with much of it. A few shillings to pro¬ 
cure you a cravat — such as you may get of Kentucky manufac¬ 
ture— I should not object to. Beyond this, however (and the 
difficulty grieves me sorely), I am so perfectly incapacitated 
from doing anything, that I am almost persuaded, in order to 
the bettering of my own condition, to pay the customary fees, 
and applying to your honorable body for the privilege of mem¬ 
bership, procure those means of lavish generosity which my 
necessity, and not my will, prevents me from bestowing upon 
you.” 

“ A very pretty idea,” returned he of the road; “ and under 
such circumstances, your jest about the cravat from Kentucky is 
by no means wanting in proper application. But the fact is, 
our numbers are just now complete — our ranks are full — and 
the candidates for the honor are so numerous as to leave little 
chance for an applicant. You might be compelled to wait a 
long season, unless the Georgia penitentiary and Georgia guard 
shall create a vacancy in your behalf.” 

“ Truly, the matter is of very serious regret,” with an air of 
much solemnity, replied the youth, who seemed admirably to 
have caught up the spirit of the dialogue—“ and it grieves me 
the more to know, that, under this view of the case, I can no 
more satisfy you than I can serve myself. It is quite unlucky 
that your influence is insufficient to procure me admission into 
your fraternity; since it is impossible that I should pay the 
turnpike, when the club itself, by refusing me membership, will 
not permit me to acquire the means of doing so. So, as the 
woods grow momently more dull and dark, and as I may have 
to ride far for a supper, I am constrained, however unwilling 
to leave good company, to wish you a fair evening, and a long 
swing of fortune, most worthy knight of the highway, and trusty 
representative of the Pony Club.” 

With these words, the youth, gathering up the bridle of the 
horse, and slightly touching him with the rowel, would have 
proceeded on his course; but the position of the outlaw now 
underwent a corresponding change, and, grasping the rein of 
the animal, he arrested his farther progress. 

“ I am less willing to separate than yourself from good com¬ 
pany, genth youth, as you may perceive; since I so carefully 


T11E ENCOUNTER — THE CHEVALIER DTN JU3TR1E. 31 


restrain you from a ride over a road so perilous as this. You 
have spoken like a fair and able scholar this afternoon; and 
talents, such as you possess, come too seldom into our forests to 
suffer them, after so brief a sample, to leave us so abruptly. 
You must come to terms with the turnpike.” 

“ Take your hands from my horse, sirrah !” was the only re¬ 
sponse made by the youth ; his tone and manner corresponding 
with the change in the situation of the parties. “ I would not 
do you harm willingly; I want no man’s blood on my head; 
but my pistols, let me assure you, are much more readily come 
at than my purse. Tempt me not to use them—stand from the 
way.” 

“ It may not be,” replied the robber, with a composure and 
coolness that underwent no change; “ your threats affect me 
not. I have not taken my place here without a perfect knowl¬ 
edge of all its dangers and consequences. You had better come 
peaceably to terms; for, were it even the case that you could 
escape me, you have only to cast your eye up the path before 
you, to be assured of the utter impossibility of escaping those 
who aid me. The same glance will also show you the tollgate, 
which you could not see before. Look ahead, young sir, and 
be wise in time; and let me perform my duties without hin¬ 
drance.” 

Casting a furtive glance on the point indicated by the ruffian,- 
the youth saw, for the first time, a succession of bars—a rail 
fence, in fact, of more than usual height—completely crossing 
the narrow pathway and precluding all passage. Approach¬ 
ing the place of strife, the same glance assured him, were 
two men, well armed, evidently the accomplices of the robber 
who had pointed to them as such. The prospect grew more 
and more perilous, and the youth, whose mind was one of that 
sort which avails itself of its energies seemingly only in emei- 
gencies, beheld his true course, with a moment’s reflection, and 
hesitated not a single moment in its adoption. He saw that 
something more was necessary than to rid himself merely of 
the ruffian immediately before him, and that an unsuccessful 
blow or shot would leave him entirely at the mercy of the gang. 
To escape, a free rein must be given to the steed, on which he 
felt confident he could rely; and, though prompted by the most 


•SUY RIVER*. 


natural impulse to send a bullet through the head of nis assail¬ 
ant, he wisely determined on a course which, as it would be un¬ 
locked for, had therefore a better prospect of success. 

Without further pause, drawing suddenly from his bosom the 
bowie-knife commonly worn in those regions, and bending for¬ 
ward, he aimed a blow at the ruffian, which, as he had antici¬ 
pated, was expertly eluded — the assailant, sinking under the 
neck of the steed, and relying on the strength of the rein, which 
he still continued to hold, to keep him from falling, while at the 
same time he kept the check upon the horse. 

This movement was that which the youth had looked for and 
desired. The blow was but a feint, for, suddenly turning the 
direction of the knife when his enemy was out of its reach, he 
cut the bridle upon which the latter hung, and the head of the 
horse, freed from the restraint, was at once elevated in air. The 
suddenness of his motion whirled the ruffian to the ground; 
while the rider, wreathing his hands in the mane of the noble 
animal, gave him a free spur, and plunged at once over the 
struggling wretch, in whose cheek the glance of his hoof left a 
deep gash. 

The steed bounded forward; nor did the youth seek to re¬ 
strain him, though advancing full up the hill and in the teeth 
of his enemies. Satisfied that he was approaching their station, 
the accomplices of the foiled ruffian, who had seen the whole 
affray,sunk into the covert; but,what was their mortification to 
perceive the traveller, though without any true command over 
his steed, by an adroit use of the broken bridle, so wheel him 
round as to bring him, in a few leaps, over the very ground of 
the strife, and before the staggering robber had yet fully arisen 
from the path. By this manoeuvre he placed himself in ad¬ 
vance of the now approaching banditti. Driving his spurs 
resolutely and unsparingly into the flanks of his horse, while 
encouraging him with well-known words of cheer, he rushed 
over the scene of his late struggle with a velocity that set all 
restraint at defiance—his late opponent scarcely being able to 
put himself in safety. A couple of shots, that whistled wide of 
the mark, announced his extrication from the difficulty—but, to 
his surprise, his enemies Lad been at work behind him, and the 
edge of the copse through which he was about to pass, was 


THE ENCOUNTER — THE CHEVALIER D’INDUSTRIE. 83 


blockaded with bars in like manner with the path in front 
He heard the shouts of the ruffians in the rear—he felt the 
danger, if not impracticability of his pausing for the removal 
of the rails, and, in the spirit which had heretofore marked 
his conduct, he determined upon the most daring endeavor. 
Throwing off all restraint from his steed, and fixing himself 
firmly in the stirrup and saddle, he plunged onward to the leap, 
and, to the chagrin of the pursuers, who had relied much upon 
the obstruction, and who now appeared in pursuit, the noble 
animal, without a moment’s reluctance, cleared it handsomely. 

Another volley of shot rang in the ears of the youth, as he 
passed the impediment, and he felt himself wounded in the side. 
The wound gave him little concern at the moment, for, under 
the excitement of the strife, he felt not even its smart; and, 
turning himself upon the saddle, he drew one of his own weap¬ 
ons from its case, and discharging it, by way of taunt, in the 
faces of the outlaws, laughed loud with the exulting spirit of 
youth at the successful result of an adventure due entirely to 
his own perfect coolness, and to the warm courage which had 
been his predominating feature from childhood. 

The incident just narrated had dispersed a crowd of gloomy 
reflections, so that the darkness which now overspread the scene, 
coupled as it was with the cheerlessness of prospect before him, 
had but little influence upon his spirits. Still, ignorant of his 
course, and beginning to be enfeebled by the loss of blood, he 
moderated his speed, and left it to the animal to choose his 
own course. But he was neither so cool nor so sanguine, to 
relax so greatly in his speed as to permit of his being overtaken 
by the desperates whom he had so cleverly foiled. He knew 
the danger, the utter hopelessness, indeed, of a second encounter 
with the same persons. He felt sure that he would be suffered 
no such long parley as before. Without restraining his horse, 
our young traveller simply reghlated his speed by a due esti¬ 
mate of the capacity of the outlaws for pursuit a-foot; and, 
without knowing whither h§.s^ed, having left the route wholly 
to the horse, he was suddenly relieved by finding himself upon 
a tolerably broad road, which, in the imperfect twilight, he con¬ 
cluded to be the same from which, in his mistimed musings 
he had suffered his horse to turn aside. He had no means to 

2 * 


u 


GUY RIVERS 


ascertain the fact, conclusively, and, in sooth, no time; for now 
he began to feel a strange sensation of weakness; his eyes 
swam, and grew darkened; a numbness paralyzed his whole 
frame; a sickness seized upon his heart; and, after sundry 
feeble efforts, under a strong will, to command and compel his 
powers, they finally gave way, and he sunk from his steed upon 
the long grass, and lay unconscious; — his last thought, ere his 
senses left him, being that of death ! Here let us leave him for 
a little space, while we hurriedly seek better knowledge of him 
in other quarters. 


YOUNG LOVE — THE RETROSPECT. 


35 


CHAPTER III. 

YOUNG LOVE-THE RETROSPECT. 

It will not hurt our young traveller, to leave him on the 
greensward, in the genial spring-time ; and, as the night gathers 
over him, and a helpful insensibility interposes for the relief of 
pain, we may avail ourselves of the respite to look into the 
family chronicles, and show the why and wherefore of this errant 
journey, the antecedents and the relations of our hero. 

Ralph Colleton, the young traveller whose person we have 
described, and whose most startling adventure in life, we have 
just witnessed, was the only son of a Carolinian, who could 
boast the best blood of English nobility in his veins. The sire, 
however, had outlived his fortunes, and, late in life, had been 
compelled to abandon the place of his nativity—an adventurer, 
struggling against a proud stomach, and a thousand embarrass¬ 
ments— and to bury himself in the less known, but more secure 
and economical regions of Tennessee. Born to affluence, with 
wealth that seemed adequate to all reasonable desires—a noble 
plantation, numerous slaves, and the host of friends who neces¬ 
sarily come with such a condition, his individual improvidence, 
thoughtless extravagance, and lavish mode of life — a habit not 
uncommon in the South—had rendered it necessary, at the age 
of fifty, when the mind, not less than the body, requires repose 
rather than adventure, that he should emigrate from the place 
of his birth; and with resources diminished to a cipher, en¬ 
deavor to break ground once more in unknown forests, and 
commence the toils and troubles of life anew. With an only 
son (the youth before us) then a mere boy, and no other family, 
Colonel Ralph Colleton did not hesitate at such an exile. He 
had found out the worthlessness of men’s professions at a period 
not very remote from the general knowledge of his loss of for 


36 


GUY ItIVEliS. 


tune : and having no other connection claiming from him either 
countenance or support, and but a single relative from whom 
separation might be painful, he felt, comparatively speaking, 
but few : of the privations usually following such a removal. 
An elder brother, like himself a widower, with a single child, 
a daughter, formed the whole of his kindred left behind him in 
Carolina; and, as between the two brothers there had existed, 
at all times, some leading dissimilar points of disposition and 
character, an occasional correspondence, due leather to form than 
to affection, served all necessary purposes in keeping up the 
sentiment of kindred in their bosoms. There were but few 
real affinities which could bring them together. They never 
could altogether understand, and certainly had but a limited 
desire to appreciate or to approve many of the several and 
distinct habits of one another; and thus they separated with 
but few sentiments of genuine concern. William Colleton, the 
elder brother, was the proprietor of several thousand highly 
valuable and pleasantly-situated acres, upon the waters of the 
Santee—a river which irrigates a region in the state of South 
Carolina, famous for its wealth, lofty pride, polished manners, 
and noble and considerate hospitality. Affluent equally with 
his younger brother by descent, marriage had still further con¬ 
tributed toward the growth of possessions, which a prudent 
management had always kept entire and always improving. 
Such was the condition of William Colleton, the uncle of the 
young Ralph, then a mere child, when he was taken by his fa¬ 
ther into Tennessee. 

There, the fortune of the adventurer still maintained its an¬ 
cient aspect. He had bought lands, and engaged in trade, and 
made sundry efforts in various and honorable ways, but with¬ 
out success. Vocation after vocation had with him a common 
and certain termination, and after many years of profitless ex 
periment, the ways of prosperity were as far remote from his 
knowledge and as perplexing to his pursuit, as at the first h Mir 
of his enterprise. In worldly concerns he stood just where he 
had started fifteen years before; with this difference for the 
worse, however, that he had grown older in this space of time, 
less equal to the tasks of adventure ; and with the moral ener 
gies checked as they had been by continual disappointment*, 


YOUNG LOVE — THE RETROSPECT. 


87 


recoiling in despondency and gloom, with trying emphasis, upon 
a spirit otherwise noble and sufficiently daring for every legiti¬ 
mate and not unwonted species of trial and occasion. ..Still, he 
had learned little, beyond Itautcur and querulousness, from the 
lessons of expo, ience. Economy was not more the inmate of 
his dwelling than when he was blessed with the large income 
of his birthright; but, extravagantly generous as ever, liis house 
was the abiding-place of a most lavish and unwise hospitality 

His brother, William Colleton, on the other hand, with means 
hourly increasing, exhibited a disposition narrowing at times 
into a selfishness the most pitiful. He did not, it is true, forego 
or forget any of those habits of freedom and intercourse in his 
household and with those about him, which form so large a 
practice among the people of the south. He could give a din¬ 
ner, and furnish an ostentatious entertainment — lodge his guest 
in the style of a prince for weeks together, nor exhibit a feature 
likely to induce a thought of intrusion in the mind of his in¬ 
mate. In public, the populace had no complaints to urge of his 
penuriousness; and in all outward shows he manifested the 
same general characteristics which marked the habit of the class 
to which he belonged. 

But his selfishness lay in things not so much on the surface. 
It was more deep and abiding in its character; and consisted in 
the false estimate which he made of the things around him. He 
had learned to value wealth as a substitute for mind—for mor¬ 
als— for all that is lofty, and all that should be leading, in the 
consideration of society. He valued few things beside. He 
had different emotions for the rich from those which he enter¬ 
tained for the poor; and, from perceiving that among men, 
money could usurp all places — could defeat virtue, command 
respect denied to morality and truth, and secure a real worship 
when the Deity must be content with shows and symbols — he 
gradually gave it the chief place in his regard. He valued 
wealth as the instrument of authority. It secured him power; 
a power, however, which he had no care to employ, and which 
he valued only as tributary to the maintenance of that haughty 
ascendency over men which was his heart’s first passion. He 
was neither miser nor mercenary ; he did not labor to accumu¬ 
late— perhaps because he was a lucky accumulator without any 


38 


GUY RIVERS. 


painstaking of his own: but he was, by nature an aristocrat, 
and not unwilling to compel respect through the means of 
money, *as through any other more noble agency of intellect or 
morals. 

There was only one respect in which a likeness between the 
fortunes of the two brothers might be found to exist. After a 
grateful union of a few years, they had both lost their wives. 
A single child, in the case of each, had preserved and hallowed 
to them the memories of their mothers. To the younger brother 
Ralph, a son had been born, soothing the sorrows of the exile, 
and somewhat compensating his loss. To William Colleton, 
the elder brother, his wife had left a single and very lovely 
daughter, the sweet and beautiful Edith, a girl but a few months 
younger than her cousin Ralph. It was the redeeming feature, 
in the case of the surviving parents, that they each gave to 
their motherless children, the whole of that affection — warm 
in both cases — which had been enjoyed by the departed 
mothers. 

Separated from each other, for years, by several hundred 
miles of uncultivated and untravelled forest, the brothers did 
not often meet; and the bonds of brotherhood waxed feebler 
and feebler, with the swift progress of successive years. Still, 
they corresponded, and in a tone and temper that seemed to 
answer for the existence of feelings, which neither, perhaps, 
would have been so forward as to assert warmly, if challenged 
to immediate answer. Suddenly, however, when young Ralph 
was somewhere about fifteen, his uncle expressed a wish to see 
him; and, whether through a latent and real affection, or a 
feeling of self-rebuke for previous neglect, he exacted from his 
brother a reluctant consent that the youth should dwell in his 
family, while receiving his education in a region then better 
prepared to bestow it with profit to the student. The two 
young cousins met in Georgia for the first time, and, after a 
brief summer journey together, in which they frequented the 
most favorite watering places, Ralph was separated from Edith, 
whom he had just begun to love with interest, and despatched 
to college. 

The separation of the son from the father, however beneficial 
it might be to the former, in certain respects of education. 


YOUNG LOYE — THE RETROSPECT. 


39 


proved fatal to the latter. He had loved the boy even more 
than he knew; had learned to live mostly in the contemplation 
of the youth’s growth and development; and his absence prey¬ 
ed upon his heart, adding to his sense of defeat in fortune, and 
the loneliness and waste of his life. The solitude in which he 
dwelt, after the boy’s departure, he no longer desired to disturb ; 
and he pined as hopelessly in his absence, as if he no longer 
had a motive or a hope to prompt exertion. He had anticipa¬ 
ted this, in some degree, when he yielded to his brother’s argu¬ 
ments and entreaties; hut, conscious of the uses and advantages 
of education to his son. he felt the selfishness to be a wrong to 
the hoy, which would deny him the benefits of that larger civ¬ 
ilization, which the uncle promised, on any pretexts. A calm re 
view of his own arguments against the transfer, showed them to he 
suggested by his own wants. With a manly resolution, there¬ 
fore, rather to sacrifice his own heart, than deny to his child the 
advantages which were held out by his brother, he consented to 
his departure. The reproach of selfishness, which William 
Colleton had not spared, brought about his resolve; and with a 
labored cheerfulness he made his preparations, and accompanied 
the youth to Georgia, where his uncle had agreed to meet him. 
They parted, with affectionate tears and embraces, never to 
meet again. A few months only had elapsed when the father 
sickened. But he never communicated to his son, or brother, 
the secret of his sufferings and grief. Worse, he never sought 
relief in change or medicine; but, brooding in the solitude, 
gnawing his own heart in silence, he gradually pined away, and, 
in a brief year, he was gathered to his fathers. He died, like 
many similarly-tempered natures, of no known disorder ! 

The boy received the tidings with a burst of grief, which 
seemed to threaten his existence. But the sorrows of youth 
are usually short-lived, particularly in the case of eager, ener¬ 
getic natures. The exchange of solitude for the crowd; the 
emulation of college life; the sports and communion of youthful 
associates—served, after a while, to soothe the sorrows of Ralph 
Colleton. Indeed, he found it necessary that he should bend 
himself earnestly to his studies, that he might forget his griefs. 
And, in a measure he succeeded; at least, he subdued their 
more fond expression, and only grew sedate, instead of passion- 


40 


GUY KIYE8S. 


ate. The bruises of his heart had brought the energies T his 
mind to their more active uses. 

From fifteen to twenty is no very long leap in the history of 
youth. We will make it now, and place the young Ralph — 
now something older in mind as in body — returned from col¬ 
lege, finely formed, intellectual, handsome, vivacious, manly, 
spirited, and susceptible — as such a person should be — once 
again in close intimacy with his beautiful cousin. The season 
which had done so much for him, had been no less liberal with 
her; and we now survey her, the expanding flower, all bloom 
and fragrance, a tribute of the spring, flourishing in the bosom 
of the more forward summer. 

Ralph came from college to his uncle’s domicil, now his only 
home. The circumstances of his father’s fate and fortune, con¬ 
tinually acting upon his mind and sensibilities from boyhood, 
had made his character a marked and singular one — proud, 
jealous, and sensitive, to an extreme which was painful not 
merely to himself, but at times to others. But he was noble, 
lofty, sincere, without a touch of meanness in his composition, 
above circumlocution, with a simplicity of character strikingly 
great, but without anything like puerility or weakness. 

The children—for such, in reference to their experience, wo 
may venture to call them—-had learned to recognise in the 
progress of a very brief period but a single existence. Ralph 
looked only for Edith, and cared nothing for other sunlight; 
while Edith, with scarcely less reserve than her bolder compan¬ 
ion, had speech and thought for few besides Ralph. Circum¬ 
stances contributed not a little to what would appear the natu 
tal growth of this mutual dependence. They were perpetually 
left together, and with few of those tacit and readily-understood 
restraints, unavoidably accompanying the presence of others 
older than themselves. Residing, save at few brief intervals, 
at the plantation of Colonel Colleton, they saw little and knew 
less of society ; and the worthy colonel, not less ambitious than 
proud, having become a politician, had left them a thousand 
opportunities of intimacy which had now become so grateful to 
them both. Half of his time was taken up in public matters. 
A leader of his party in the section of country in which he lived, 
he was always busy in the responsibilities imposed upon him 


YOUNG LOVE — THE RETROSPFXr. 


41 


by such a station; and, what with canvassing at election-polls 
and muster-grounds, and dancing attendance as a silent voter 
at the halls of the state legislature, to the membership of which 
his constituents had returned him, he saw but little of his family, 
and they almost as little of him. His influence grew unimpor¬ 
tant with his wards, in proportion as it obtained vigor with his 
faction — was seldom referred to by them, and, perhaps, if it 
had been, such was the rapid growth of their affections, would 
have been but little regarded. He appeared to take it for 
granted, that, having provided them with all the necessaries 
called for by life, he had done quite enough for their benefit; 
and actually gave far less of his consideration to his own and 
only child than he did to his plantation, and the success of a 
party measure, involving possibly the office of doorkeeper to 
the house, or of tax-collector to the district. The taste for do¬ 
mestic life, which at one period might have been held with him 
exclusive, had been entirely swallowed up and forgotten in his 
public relations; and entirely overlooking the fact, that, in the 
silent goings-on of time, the infantile will cease to be so, he 
never seemed to observe that the children whom he had brought 
together but a few years before might not with reason be con¬ 
sidered children any longer. 

Children, indeed! What years had they not lived—what 
volumes of experience in human affections and feelings had the 
influence and genial warmth of a Carolina sun not unfolded to 
their spirits—in the few sweet and uninterrupted seasons of 
their intercourse. How imperious were the dictates of that na¬ 
ture, to whose immethodical but honest teachings they had been 
almost entirely given up. They lived together, walked togeth¬ 
er, rode together—read in the same books, conned the same 
lessons, studied the same prospects, saw life through the common 
medium of mutual associations; and lived happy only in the 
sweet unison of emotions gathered at a common fountain, and 
equally dear, and equally necessary to them both. And this is 
love—they loved ! 

They loved, but the discovery was yet to be made by them. 
Living in its purest luxuries—in the perpetual communion of 
the only one necessary object—having no desire and as little 
prospect of change — ignorant of and altogether untutored by 


42 


GUY RIVERS. 


the vicissitides of life — enjoying the sweet association which 
had been the parent of that passion, dependent now entirely 
upon its continuance—they had been content, and had never 
given themselves any concern to analyze its origin, or to find 
for it it name. A momentary doubt—the presages of a dim 
perspective—would have taught them better. Had there been 
a single moment of discontent in their lives at this period, they 
had not remained so long in such ignorance. The fear of its 
loss can alone teach us the true value of our treasure. But the 
discovery was at hand. 

A pleasant spring afternoon in April found the two young 
people, llalpli and Edith — the former now r twenty years of age, 
and the latter in the same neighborhood, half busied, half idle, 
in the long and spacious piazza of the family mansion. They 
could not be said to have been employed, for Edith rarely made 
much progress with the embroidering needle and delicate fabric 
in her hands, while Ralph, something more absorbed in a ro¬ 
mance of the day, evidently exercised little concentration of 
mind in scanning its contents. He skimmed, at first, rather 
than studied, the pages before him: conversing occasionally 
with the young maiden, who, sitting beside him, occasionally 
glanced at the volume in his hand, with something of an air of 
discontent that it should take even so much of his regard from 
herself. As he proceeded, however, in its perusal, the story 
grew upon him, and lie became unconscious of her occasional 
efforts to control his attention. The needle of Edith seemed 
also disposed to avail itself of the aberrations of its mistress, 
and to rise in rebellion; and, having pricked her finger more 
than once in the effort to proceed with her work while her eyes 
wandered to her companion, she at length threw down the gauzy 
fabric upon which she had been so partially employed, and has¬ 
tily rising from her seat, passed into the adjoining apartment. 

Her departure was not attended to by her companhn, who 
for a time continued his perusal of the book. No great while, 
however, elapsed, when, rising also from his seat with a hasty 
exclamation of surprise, he threw down the volume and followed 
her into the room where she sat pensively meditating over 
thoughts and feelings as vague and inscrutable to her mind, as 
they were clear and familiar to her heart. With a degree of 


YOUNG LOVE—THE RETROSPECT. 


48 


warm impetuosity, even exaggerated beyond his usual manner, 
which bore at all times this characteristic, he approached her, 
and, seizing her hand passionately in his, exclaimed hastily — 

“ Edith, my sweet Edith, how unhappy that book has made 
me!” 

“How so, Ralph — why should it make you unhappy'?” 

“ It has taught me much, Edith — very much, in the last half 
hour. It has spoken of privation and disappointment as the 
true elements of life, and has shown me so many pictures of so¬ 
ciety in such various situations, and with so much that I feel 
assured must be correct, that I am unable to resist its impres¬ 
sions. We have been happy—so happy, Edith, and for so 
many years, that I can not bear to think that either of us should 
be less so; and yet that volume has taught me, in the story of 
parallel fortunes with ours, that it may be so. It has given me 
a long lesson in the hollow economy of that world which men 
seek, and name society. It has told me that we, or I, at least, 
may be made and kept miserable for ever.” 

“ How, Ralph, tell me, I pray you—how should that book 
have taught you this strange notion ? Why 1 What book is it ? 
That stupid story!” was the gasping exclamation of the aston¬ 
ished girl — astonished no less by the impetuous manner than the 
strong language of the youth; and, with the tenderest concern 
she laid her hand upon his arm, while her eyes, full of the live¬ 
liest interest, yet moistened with a tearful apprehension, were 
fixed earnestly upon his own. 

“It is a stupid book, a very stupid book—a story of false 
sentiment, and of mock and artificial feelings, of which I know, 
and care to know, nothing. But it has told me so much that 
I feel is true, and that chimes in with my own experience. It 
has told ine much besides, that I am glad to have been taught 
Hear me then, dear Edith, and smile not carelessly at my words, 
for I have now learned to tremble when I speak, in fear lest I 
should offend you,” 

She would have spoken words of assurance—she would 
have taught him to think better of her affections and their 
strength; but his impetuosity checked her in her speech. 

“ I know what you would say, and my heart thanks you for 
it, as if its very life depended upon the utterance. You would 


44 GUY RIVERS. 

tell me to have no such fear; but the fear is a portion of myself 
now — it is my heart itself. Hear me then, Edith — my Edith, 
if you will so let me call you.” 

Her hand rested on his assuringly, with a gentle pressure. 
He continued— 

“ Hitherto we have lived with each other, only with each 
other—we have loved each other, and I have almost only 
loved you. Neither of us, Edith (may I believe it of you ?) has 
known much of any other affection. But how long is this to 
last? that book — where is it? but no matter — it has taught 
me that, now, when a few months will carry us both into the 
world, it is improper that our relationship should continue. It 
says we can not be the children any longer that we have been 
—that such intercourse — I can now perceive why — would be 
injurious to you. Do you understand me ?” 

The blush of a first consciousness came over the cheek of the 
maiden, as she withdrew her hand from his passionate clasp. 

“ Ah ! I see already,” he exclaimed: “ you too have learned 
the lesson. And is it thus—and we are to be happy no longer!” 

“Ralph!”-—she endeavored to speak, but could proceed no 
further, and her hand was again, silently and without objection, 
taken into the grasp of his. The youth, after a brief pause, re¬ 
sumed, in a tone, which though it had lost much of its impetu¬ 
ousness, was yet full of stern resolution. 

“ Hear me, Edith — but a word—a single word. I love you, 
believe me, dear Edith, I love you.” 

The effect of this declaration was scarcely such as the youth 
desired. She had been so much accustomed to his warm admi¬ 
ration, indicated frequently in phrases such as these, that it had 
the effect of restoring to her much of her self-possession, of 
which the nature of the previous dialogue had a little deprived 
her; and, in the most natural manner in the world, she replied 
— perhaps too, we may add, with much of the artlessness of 
art— 

“Why, to be sure you do,Cousin Ralph—it would be some¬ 
thing strange indeed if you did not. I believe you love me, 
as I am sure you can never doubt how much you are beloved 
by me!” 

Cousin Ralph— -Cousin Ralph!” exclaimed the youth with 


YOUNG LOVE — THE RETROSPECT. 


45 


something of his former impetuosity, emphasizing ironically as 
he spoke the unfortunate family epithet—“Ah, Edith, you will 
not understand me — nor indeed, an hour ago, should I alto¬ 
gether have understood myself. Suddenly, dear Edith, how¬ 
ever, as I read certain passages of that book, the thought darted 
through my brain like lightning, and I saw into my own heart, 
as I had never been permitted to see into it before. I there 
saw how much I loved you — not as my cousin—not as my 
sister, as you sometimes would have me call you, but as I will 
not call you again — but as — as—” 

“ As what V 9 

“As my wife , Edith — as my own, own wife !” 
lie clasped her hand in his, while his head sunk, and his lips 
were pressed upon the taper and trembling fingers which grew 
cold and powerless within his grasp. 

What a volume was at that moment opened, for the first time, 
before the gaze and understanding of the half-affrighted and 
deep-throbbing heart of that gentle girl. The veil which had 
concealed its burning mysteries was torn away in an instant. 
The key to its secret places was in her hands, and she was be¬ 
wildered with her own discoveries. Her cheeks alternated be¬ 
tween the pale and crimson of doubt and hope. Her lips quiv¬ 
ered convulsively, and an unbidden but not painful suffusion 
overspread the warm brilliance of her soft fair cheeks. She 
strove, ineffectually, to speak; her words came forth in broken 
murmurs; her voice had sunk into a sigh; she was dumb. The 
youth once more took her hand into his, as, speaking with a 
suppressed tone, and with a measured slowness which had 
something in it of extreme melancholy, he broke silence: — 
“And have I no answer, Edith—and must I believe that for 
either of us there should be other loves than those of childhood 
—that new affections may usurp the place of old ones—that 
there may come a time, dear Edith, when I shall see an arm, 
not my own, about your waist ; and the eyes that would look 
on no prospect if you were not a part of it, may be doomed to 
that fearfullest blight of beholding your lips smiling and pressed 
beneath the lips of another V* 

“ Never, oh never, Ralph ! Speak no more, I beseech you, 
in such language. You do me wrong in this—I have no such 


46 


GUY RIVERS. 


wish, no uch thought or purpose. I dc not—I could not— 
think of another, Ralph. I will be yours, and yours only—if 
you really wish it.” 

“ If I wish! Ah! dear Edith, you are mine, and I am 
yours! The world shall not pass between us.” 

She murmured— 

“Yours, Ralph, yours only !” 

He caught her in his passionate embrace, even as the words 
were murmured from her lips. Her head settled upon his 
shoulder; her light brown hair, loosened from the comb, fell 
over it in silky masses. Her eyes closed, his arms still encir¬ 
cled her, and the whole world was forgotten in a moment 
when the door opened, and a third party entered the room in 
the person of Colonel Colleton. 

Here was a catastrophe! 


A RUPTURE — THE COURSE OP TRUE LOVE. 


17 


CHAPTER IV. 

A RUP’l RE — THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 

Colonel Colj Eton stood confounded at the spectacle before 
him. Filled with public affairs, or rather, with his own affairs 
in the public eye, he had grown totally heedless of ordinary 
events, household interests, and of the rapid growth and devel¬ 
opment of those passions in youth which ripen quite as fervent¬ 
ly and soon in the shade as in the sun. These children—how 
should they have grown to such a stature! His daughter, at 
this moment, seemed taller than he had ever seen her before! 
and Ralph !—as the uncle’s eyes were riveted upon the youth, 
he certainly grew more than ever erect and imposing of look 
and stature. The first glance which he gave to the scene, did 
not please the young man. There was something about the ex¬ 
pression of the uncle’s face, which seemed to the nephew to be 
as supercilious, as it certainly was angry. Proud, jealous of 
his sensibilities, the soul of the youth rose in arms, at the look 
which annoyed him. That Edith’s father should ever disap¬ 
prove of his passion for his cousin, never once entered the young 
man’s brain. He had not, indeed, once thought upon the mat¬ 
ter. He held it to be a thing of course that the father would 
welcome a union which promised to strengthen the family bond, 
and maintain the family name and blood in perpetuity. When, 
therefore, he beheld, in his uncle’s face, such an expression of 
scorn mixed with indignation, he resented it with the fervor of 
his whole soul. He was bewildered, it is true, but he was also 
chafed, and it needed that he should turn his eyes to the sweet 
cause of his offence, before he could find himself relieved of the 
painful feelings which her father’s look and manner had occa¬ 
sioned him. 

Poor Edith had a keener sense of the nature of the case. 


4 * 


OUT RIVERS. 


Her instincts more readily supplied the means of knowledge. 
Besides, there were certain family matters, which the look of 
her father suddenly recalled—which had never been suffered 
to reach the ears of her cousin; — which indicated to her, how¬ 
ever imperfectly, the possible cause of that severe and scornful 
expression of eye, in the uncle, which had so confounded the 
nephew. She looked, with timid pleading to her father’s face, 
but dared not speak. 

And still the latter stood at the entrance silent, sternly scan¬ 
ning the young offenders, just beginning to be conscious of 
offence. A surprise of any kind is exceedingly paralyzing to 
young lovers, caught in a situation like that in which our luck¬ 
less couple were found on this occasion. It is probable, that, 
but for this, Ralph Colleton would scarcely have borne so 
meekly the severe look which the father now bestowed upon 
his daughter. 

Though not the person to trouble himself much at any time 
in relation to his child, Colonel Colleton had never once treated 
her unkindly. Though sometimes neglectful, he had never 
shown himself stern. The look whicli he now gave her was 
new to all her experience. The poor girl began to conceive 
much more seriously of her offence than ever;—it seemed to 
spread out unimaginably far, and to involve a thousand viola¬ 
tions of divine and human law. She could only look pleadingly, 
without speech, to her father. His finger silently pointed her 
to withdraw. 

“ Oh, father!”—the exclamation was barely murmured. 

“ Go!” was the sole answer, with the finger still uplift. 

In silence, she glided away ; not, however, without stealing 
a fond and assuring glance at her lover. 

Her departure was the signal for that issue between the two 
remaining parties for which each was preparing in his own 
fashion. Ralph had not beheld the dumb show, in which Edith 
was dismissed, without a rising impulse of choler. The manner 
of the thing had been particularly offensive to him. But the 
father of Edith, whatever his offence, had suddenly risen into 
new consideration in the young man’s mind, from the moment 
that he fully comprehended his feelings for the daughter. He 
was accordingly, somewhat disposed to temporize, though there 


A RUPTURE—THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 


49 


was still a lurking desire in his mind, to demand an explanation 
of those supercilious glances which had so offended him. 

But the meditations of neither party consumed one twentieth 
part of the time that we have taken in hinting what they were. 
With the departure of Edith, and the closing of the door after 
her, Colonel Colleton, with all his storms, approached to the 
attack. The expression of scorn upon his face had given way 
to one of anger wholly. His glance seemed meant to penetrate 
the bosom of the youth with a mortal stab—it was hate, rather 
than anger, that he looked. Yet it was evident that he made 
an effort to subdue his wrath—its full utterance at least—but 
he could not chase the terrible cloud from his haughty brow. 

The youth, getting chafed beneath his gaze, returned him 
look for look, and his brows grew dark and lowering also; and, 
for anger, they gave back defiance. This silent, but expressive 
dialogue, was the work of a single moment of time. The uncle 
broke the silence. 

“ What am I to understand from this, young man ?” 

“ Young man, sir !—I feel it very difficult to understand you, 
uncle! In respect to Edith and myself, sir, I have but to say 
tliat we have discovered that we are something more than cous¬ 
ins to each other ! ” 

“ Indeed ! And how long is it, I pray, since you have made 
this discovery?” 

This was said with a dry tone, and hard, contemptuous man¬ 
ner. The youth strove honestly to keep down his blood. 

“ Within the hour, sir! Not that we have not always felt 
that we loved each other, uncle; only, that, up to this time, we 
had never been conscious of the true nature of our feelings.” 

The youth replied with the most provoking simplicity. The 
uncle was amioyed. He would rather that Ralph should have 
jvdieved him, by a conjecture of his own, from the necessity of 
hinting to him that such extreme sympathies, between the par¬ 
ties, were by no means a matter of course. But the nephew 
would not, or could not, see; and his surprise, at the uncle’s 
course, was perpetually looking for explanation. It became 
necessary to speak plainly. 

“ And with what reason, Ralph Colleton, do you suppose 
that I will sanction an alliance between you and my daughter ? 

3 


50 


GUY RIVERS. 


Upon what, I pray you, do you ground your pretensions to th< 
hand of Edith Colleton ? ” 

Such was the haughty interrogation. Ralph was confounded. 
u My pretensions, sir?—The hand of Edith ! Do I hear you 
right, uncle ? Do you really mean what you say ? 

i( My words are as I have said them. They are sufficiently 
explicit. You need not misunderstand them. What, I ask, 
are your pretensions to the hand of my daughter, and how is it 
that you have so far forgotten yourself as thus to abuse my con¬ 
fidence, stealing into the affections of my child ? ” 

< 4 Uncle, I have abused no confidence, and will not submit to 
any charge that would dishonor me. What I have done has 
been done openly, before all eyes, and without resort to cun¬ 
ning or contrivance. I must do myself the justice to believe 
that you knew all this without the necessity of my speech, and 
even while your lips spoke the contrary.” 

“ You are bold, Ralph, and seem to have forgotten that you 
are yet but a mere boy. You forget your years and mine.” 

“ No, sir—pardon me when I so speak—but it is you who 
have forgotten them. Was it well to speak as you have spo¬ 
ken ? ” proudly replied the youth. 

“ Ralph, you have forgotten much, or have yet to be taught 
many things. You may not have violated confidence, but—” 

“1 have not violated confidence ! ” was the abrupt and some¬ 
what impetuous response, “ and will not have it spoken of in 
that manner. It is not true that I have abused any trust, and 
the assertion which I make shall not therefore be understood as 
a mere possibility.” 

The uncle was something astounded by the almost fierce 
manner of his nephew; but the only other effect of this expres¬ 
sion was simply, while it diminished his own testiness of man¬ 
ner in his speeches, to add something to the severity of their 
character. He knew the indomitable spirit of the youth, and 
his pride was enlisted in the desire for its overthrow. 

“ You are yet to learn, Ralph Colleton, I perceive, the dif¬ 
ference and distance between yourself and my daughter. You 
are but a youth, yet—quite too young to think of such ties as 
those of marriage, and to make any lasting engagement of that 
nature; but, even were this not the case, I am entirely ignorant 


A RUPTURE-THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 


51 


of those pretensions which should prompt your claim to the 
hand of Edith.” 

Had Colonel Colleton been a prudent and reflective man-— 
had he, indeed, known much, if anything, of human nature— 
he would have withheld the latter part of this sentence. He 
must have seen that its effect would only be to irritate a spirit 
needing an emollient. The reply was instantaneous. 

“ My pretensions, Colonel Colleton ? You have twice uttered 
that word in my ears, and with reference to this subject. Let 
me understand you. If you would teach me by this sentence 
the immeasurable individual superiority of Edith over myself 
in all things, whether of mind, or heart, or person, the lesson is 
gratuitous. I need no teacher to this end. I acknowledge its 
truth, and none on this point can more perfectly agree with 
you than myself. But if, looking beyond these particulars, you 
would have me recognize in myself an inferiority, marked and 
singular, in a fair comparison with other men—if, in short, you 
would convey an indignity; and-—but you are my father’s 
brother, sir ! ” and the blood mounted to his forehead, and his 
heart swelling, the youth turned proudly away, and rested his 
head upon the mantel. 

“ Not so, Ralph; you are hasty in your thought, not less than 
in its expression,” said his uncle, soothingly. “ I meant not 
what you think. But you must be aware, nephew, that my 
daughter, not less from the fortune which will be exclusively 
hers, and her individual accomplishments, than from the leading 
political station which her father fills, will be enabled to have a 
choice in the adoption of a suitor, which this childish passion 
might defeat.” 

“ Mine is no childish passion, sir; though young, my mind is 
not apt to vary in its tendencies ; and, unlike that of the mere 
politician, has little of inconsistency in its predilections with 
which to rebuke itself. But, I understand you. You have spo¬ 
ken of her fortune, and that reminds me that I had a father, 
not less worthy, I am sure—not less generous, I feel—but cer¬ 
tainly far less prudent than hers. I understand you, sir, per¬ 
fectly.” 

Tf you mean, Ralph, by this sarcasm, that my considera¬ 
tions are those of wealth, you mistake me much. The man 


o2 


GUY RIVERS. 


who seeks my daughter must not look for a sacrifice; she must 
win a husband who has a name, a high place—who has a stand¬ 
ing in society. Your tutors, indeed, speak of you in fair terms; 
but the public voice is everything in our country. When you 
have got through your law studies, and made your first speech, 
we will talk once more upon this subject.” 

“ And when I have obtained admission to the practice of 
the law, do you say that Edith shall be mine V 1 

“ Nay, Ralph, you again mistake me. I only say, it will be 
then time enough to consider the matter.” 

“ Uncle, this will not do for me. Either you sanction, or you 
do not. You mean something by that word pretensions which I am 
yet to understand ; my name is Colleton, like your own, and—” 

There was a stern resolve in the countenance of the colonel, 
which spoke of something of the same temper with his impetu¬ 
ous nephew, and the cool and haughty sentence which fell from 
his lips in reply, while arresting that of the youth, was galling 
to the proud spirit of the latter, whom it chafed nearly into 
madness. 

“ Why, true, Ralph, such is your name indeed; and your 
reference to this subject now, only reminds me of the too free 
use which my brother made of it when he bestowed it upon a 
woman so far beneath him and his family in all possible respects.” 

“ There again, sir, there again ! It is my mother’s poverty 
that pains you. She brought my father no dowry. lie had 
nothing of that choice prudence which seems to have been the 
guide of others of our family in the bestowment of their affec¬ 
tions. He did not calculate the value of his wife’s income be¬ 
fore he suffered himself to become enamored of her. I see it, 
sir — I am not ignorant.” 

“ If I speak with you calmly, Ralph, it is because you are 
the indweller of my house, and because I have a pledge to my 
brother in your behalf.” 

“ Speak freely, sir; let not this scruple trouble you any 
longer. It shall not trouble me; and I shall be careful to take 
early occasion to release you most effectually from all such 
pledges.” 

Colonel Colleton proceeded as if the last speech had not been 
uttered 


A RUPTURE — THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 58 

“ Edith has a claim in society which shall not he sacrificed. 
Her father, Ralph, did not descend to the hovel of the misera¬ 
ble peasant, choosing a wife from the inferior grade, who, with¬ 
out education, and ignorant of all refinement, could only appear 
a blot upon the station to which she had been raised. Her 
mother, sir, was not a woman obscure and uneducated, for whom 
no parents could be found.” 

“ What means all this, sir ? Speak, relieve me at once, Co* 
onel Colleton. What know you of my mother ?” 

“ Nothing—but quite as much as your father ever knew. It 
is sufficient that he found her in a hovel, without a name, and 
with the silly romance of his character through life, he raised 
her to a position in society which she could not fill to his honor, 
and which, finally, working upon his pride and sensibility drove 
him into those extravagances which in the end produced his 
ruin. I grant that she loved him with a most perfect devotion, 
v/hicli he too warmly returned, but what of that? — she was 
still his destroyer.” 

Thus sternly did the- colonel unveil to the eyes of Ralph 
Colleton a portion of the family picture which he had never 
been permitted to survey before. 

Cold drops stood on the brow of the now nerveless and un- 
liappy youth. He was pale, and his eyes were fixed for ail 
instant; but, suddenly recovering himself, ho rushed hastily 
from the apartment before his uncle could interpose to prevent 
him. He heard not or heeded not the words of entreaty which 
called him back; but, proceeding at once to his chamber, he 
carefully fastened the entrance, and, throwing himself upon his 
couch, found relief from the deep mental agony thus suddenly 
forced upon him, in a flood of tears. 

For the first time in his life, deriving his feeling in this par¬ 
ticular rather from the opinions of society than from any indi¬ 
vidual consciousness of debasement, he felt a sentiment of hu¬ 
miliation working in his breast. His mother he had little 
known, but his father’s precepts and familiar conversation had 
impressed upon him, from his childhood, a feeling for her of 
the deepest and most unqualified regard. This feeling was not 
lessened, though rebuked, by the development so unnecessarily 
«nd so wantonly conveyed. It taught a new feeling of distrust 


54 


GUY RIVERS. 


for li 1*3 uncle, whose Imrsh manner and ungenerous insinuations, 
in the progress of the preceding half-hour, had lost him not a 
little of the youth’s esteem. He felt that the motive of his in¬ 
former was not less unkind than was the information painful 
and oppressive; and his mind, now more than ever excited and 
active from this thought,went on discussing, from point to point, 
all existing relations, until a stem resolve to leave, that very 
night, the dwelling of one whose hospitality had been made a 
matter of special reference, was the only and settled conclusion 
to which his pride could possibly come. 

The servant reminded him of the supper-hour, but the sum¬ 
mons was utterly disregarded. The colonel himself conde¬ 
scended to notify the stubborn youth of the same important 
fact, but with almost as little effect. Without opening his door, 
he signified his indisposition to join in the usual repast, and 
thus closed the conference. 

“ I meet him at the table no more—not at his table, at least,” 
was the muttered speech of Ralph, as he heard the receding 
footsteps of his uncle. 

He had determined, though without any distinct object in 
view, upon leaving the house and returning to Tennessee, where 
he had hitherto resided. His excited spirits would suffer no 
delay, and that very night was the period chosen for his de¬ 
parture. Few preparations were necessary. With a fine horse 
of his own, the gift of his father, he knew that the course lay 
open. The long route he had more than once travelled before ; 
a„d he had no fears, though he well knew the desolate charac¬ 
ter of the journey, in pursuing it alone. Apart from this, he 
loved adventure for its own sake. The first lesson which his 
father had taught him, even in boyhood, was that braving of 
trial which alone can bring about the most perfect manliness. 
With a stout heart, and with limbs not less so, the difficulties 
before him had no thought in his mind; there was buoyancy 
enough in the excitement of his spirit, at that moment, to give 
even a pleasurable aspect to the obstacles that rose before him. 

At an early hour he commenced the work of preparation: he 
had little trouble in this respect. He studiously selected from 
his wardrobe such portions of it as had been the gift of his 
uncle, all of which he carefully excluded from among the con- 


A RUPTURE—THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 


55 


tents of the little portmanteau which readily comprised the res¬ 
idue. His travelling-dress was quickly adjusted; and not omit¬ 
ting a fine pair of pistols and a dirk, which, at that period, were 
held in the south and southwest legitimate companions, he found 
few other cares for arrangement. One token alone of Edith — 
a small miniature linked with his own, taken a few seasons be¬ 
fore, when both were children, by a strolling artist—suspended 
by a chain of the richest gold, was carefully hung about his 
neck. It grew in value, to his mind, at a moment when he was 
about to separate, perhaps for ever, from its sweet original. 

At midnight, when all was silent—his portmanteau under 
his arm—booted, spurred, and ready for travel—Ralph de¬ 
scended to the lower story, in which slept the chief servant of 
the house. Caesar was a favorite with the youth, and he had 
no difficulty in making himself understood. The worthy black 
was thunderstruck with his determination. 

“ Ky ! Mass Ralph, how you talk! what for you go dis time 
o’night \ What for you go’t all ?” 

The youth satisfied him, in a manner as evasive and brief as 
possible, and urged him in the preparation of his steed for the 
journey. But the worthy negro absolutely refused to sanction 
the proceeding unless he were permitted to go along with him. 
He used not a few strong arguments for this purpose. 

“ And what we all for do here, when you leff ? ’speck ebbery 
ting be dull, wuss nor ditch-water. No more fun—no more 
shuffle-foot. Old maussa no like de fiddle, and nebber hab 
party and jollication like udder people. Don’t tink I can 
stay here, Mass Ra’ph, after you gone; ’spose, you no ’jecticn, 
I go ’long wid you 1 You leff me, I take to de swamp, sure 
as a gun.” 

“ No, Caesar, you are not mine; you belong to your young 
mistress. You must stay and wait upon her.” 

“Ha!” was the quick response of the black, with a signifi¬ 
cant smirk upon his lip, and with a cunning emphasis; “ enty 
I see; wha’ for I hab eye ef I no see wid em 1 I ’speck young 
misses hab no ’jection for go too — eh, Mass Ra’ph! all you 
hab for do is for axem!” 

The eye of the youth danced with a playful light, as if a new 
thought, and not a disagreeable one, had suddenly broken in 


56 


GUY RIVERS. 


upon his brain; but the expression lasted but for an instant 
He overruled all the hopes and wishes of the sturdy black, who. 
at length, with a manner the most desponding, proceeded to 
the performance of the required duty. A few moments sufficed, 
and with a single look to the window of his mistress, which 
spoke unseen volumes of love, leaving an explanatory letter for 
the perusal of father and daughter, though addressed only to 
the latter—he gave the rough hand of his sable friend a cor¬ 
dial pressure, and was soon hidden from sight by the thickly- 
spreading foliage of the long avenue. The reader has been al¬ 
ready apprized that the youth, whose escape in a preceding 
chapter we have already narrated, and Ralph Colleton, are one 
and the same person. 

lie had set forth, as we have seen, under the excitation of 
feelings strictly natural; but which, subtracting from the 
strong common sense belonging to his character, had led him 
prematurely into an adventure, having no distinct purposes, 
and promising largely of difficulty. What were his thoughts 
of the future, what his designs, we are not prepared to say. 
His character was of a firm and independent kind; and the 
probability is, that, looking to the profession of the law, in the 
study of which noble science his mind had been for some time 
occupied, he had contemplated its future practice in those por¬ 
tions of Tennessee in which his father had been known, and 
where he himself had passed some very pleasant years of his 
own life. With economy, a moderate talent, and habits of in¬ 
dustry, he was well aware that, in those regions, the means of 
life are with little difficulty attainable by those who are worthy 
and will adventure. Let us now return to the wayfarer, whom 
we have left in that wildest region of the then little-settled state 
of Georgia—doubly wild as forming the debatable land between 
the ravage and the civilized — partaking of the ferocity of the 
one and the skill, cunning, and cupidity of the other. 


MARK FORRESTER — THE GOLD VILLAGE. 


57 


CHAPTER V. 

MARK FORRESTER — THE GOLD VILLAGE. 

There were moments when Ralph Colleton, as he lay bruised 
and wounded upon the sward, in those wild woods, and beneath 
the cool canopy of heaven, was conscious of his situation, of its 
exposure and its perils—moments, when he strove to recover 
himself—to shake off the stupor which seemed to fetter his 
limbs as effectually as it paralyzed his thoughts; — and the re¬ 
newed exercise of his mental energies, brought about, and for a 
little while sustained, an increased consciousness, which perhaps 
rather added to his pain. It taught him his own weakness, 
when he strove vainly to support himself against the tree to 
which he had crawled; and in despair, the acuteness of which 
was only relieved by the friendly stupor which came to his aid, 
arising from the loss of blood, he closed his eyes, and muttering 
a brief sentence, which might have been a prayer, he resigned 
himself to his fate. 

But he was not thus destined to perish. He had not lain 
many minutes in this situation when the tones of a strong voice 
rang through the forest. There was a whoop and halloo, and 
then a catch of a song, and then a shrill whistle, all strangely 
mingled together, finally settling down into a rude strain, which, 
coming from stentorian lungs, found a ready echo in every jut¬ 
ting rock and space of wood for a mile round. The musician 
went on merrily from verse to verse of his forest minstrelsy as 
he continued to approach ; describing in his strain, with a ready 
ballad-facility, the numberless pleasures to be found in the life 
of the woodman. Uncouthly, and in a style partaking rather 
more of the savage than the civilized taste and temper, it, enu¬ 
merated the distinct features of each mode of life with much in- 


58 


GUY RIVERS. 


genuity and, in stanzas smartly epigrammatic, did not hesitate 
to assign the preference to the former. 

As the new-comer approached the spot where Ralph Colle¬ 
ton lay, there was still a partial though dim light over the forest. 
The twilight was richly clear, and there were some faint yellow 
lines of the sun’s last glances lingering still on the remote hori¬ 
zon. The moon, too, in the opposite sky, about to come forth, 
had sent before her some few faint harbingers of her approach; 
and it was not difficult for the sturdy woodman to discern the 
body of the traveller, lying, as it did, almost in his path. A 
few paces farther on stood his steed, cropping the young grass, 
and occasionally, with uplifted head, looking round with some¬ 
thing like human wonderment, for the assertion of that author¬ 
ity which heretofore had him in charge. At the approach of 
the stranger he did not start, but, seeming conscious of some 
change for the better in his own prospects, he fell again to work 
upon the herbage as if no interruption had occurred to his re¬ 
past. 

The song of the woodman ceased as he discovered the body. 
With an exclamation, he stooped down to examine it, and his 
hands were suffused with the blood which had found its way 
through the garments. He saw that life was not extinct, and 
readily supposing the stupor the consequence of loss of blood 
rather than of vital injury, he paused a few moments as in 
seeming meditation, then turning from the master to liis unre- 
luctant steed, he threw himself upon his back, and was quickly 
out of sight. He soon returned, bringing with him a wagon 
and team, such as all farmers possess in that region, and lifting 
the inanimate form into the rude vehicle with a tender caution 
that indicated a true humanity, walking slowly beside the 
horses, and carefully avoiding all such obstructions in the road, 
as by disordering the motion would have given pain to the suf¬ 
ferer, he carried him safely, and after the delay of a few hours, 
into the frontier, and then almost unknown, village of Cliestatee. 

It was well for the youth that he had fallen into such hands. 
There were few persons in that part of the world like Mark 
Forrester. A better heart, or more honorable spirit, lived not ; 
and in spite of an erring and neglected education—of evil as¬ 
sociations, and sometimes evil pursuits—he was still a worthy 


MARK FORRESTER —THE GOLD VILLAGE. 


59 


specimen of manliood. We may as well here describe him, as 
he appears to us; for at this period the youth was still insensi¬ 
ble—unconscious of his deliverance as he was of his deliverer. 

Mark Forrester was a stout, strongly-built, yet active person, 
some six feet in height, square and broad-shouldered—exhibit¬ 
ing an outline, wanting, perhaps, in some of the more rounded 
graces of form, yet at the same time far from symmetrical de¬ 
ficiency. There was, also, not a little of ease and agility, to¬ 
gether with a rude gracefulness in his action, the result equally 
of the well-combined organization of his animal man and of .the 
hardy habits of his woodland life. His appearance was youth¬ 
ful, and the passing glance would perhaps have rated him at 
little more than six or seven-and-twenty. His broad, full chest, 
heaving strongly with a consciousness of might—together with 
the generally athletic muscularity of his whole person—indi¬ 
cated correctly the possession of prodigious strength. His face 
was finely southern. His features were frank and fearless— 
moderately intelligent, and well marked—the tout ensemble 
showing an active vitality, strong, and usually just feelings, 
and a good-natured freedom of character, which enlisted confi¬ 
dence, and seemed likely to acknowledge few restraints of a 
merely conventional kind. Nor, in any of these particulars, did 
the outward falsely interpret the inward man. With the pos¬ 
session of a giant’s powers, he was seldom so far borne forward 
by his impulses, whether of pride or of passion, as to permit of 
their wanton or improper use. His eye, too, had a not unpleas¬ 
ing twinkle, promising more of good-fellowship and a heart at 
ease than may ever consort with the jaundiced or distempered 
spirit. His garb indicated, in part, and was well adapted to. 
the pursuits of the hunter and the labors of the woodman. We 
couple these employments together, for, in the wildernesses of 
North America, the dense forests, and broad prairies, they are 
utterly inseparable. In a belt, made of buckskin, which encir¬ 
cled his middle, was stuck, in a sheath of the same material, a 
small axe, such as, among the Indians, was well known to the 
early settlers as a deadly implement of war. The head of this 
instrument, or that portion of it opposite the blade, and made in 
weight to correspond with and balance the latter when hurled 
from the hand, was a pick of solid steel, narrowing down to a 


GUY RIVERS. 


60 

point, and calculated, with a like blow, to prove even more 
fatal, as a weapon in conflict, than the more legitimate member 
to which it was appended. A thong of ox-hide, slung over his 
shoulder, supported easily a light rifle of the choicest bore; for 
there are few matters indeed upon which the wayfarer in the 
southern wilds exercises a nicer and more discriminating taste 
than in the selection of a companion, in a pursuit like his, of 
the very last importance; and which, in time, he learns to love 
with a passion almost comparable to his love of woman. The 
dress of the woodman was composed of a coarse gray stuff, of a 
make sufficiently outre, but which, fitting him snugly, served to 
set off his robust and well-made person to the utmost advantage. 
A fox-skin cap, of domestic manufacture, the tail of which, 
studiously preserved, obviated any necessity for a foreign tas¬ 
sel, rested slightly upon his head, giving a unique finish to his 
appearance, which a fashionable hat would never have supplied. 
Such was the personage, who, so fortunately for Ralph, plied 
his craft in that lonely region ; and who, stumbling upon his in¬ 
sensible form at nightfall, as already narrated, carefully con¬ 
veyed him to his own lodgings at the village-inn of Chestatee. 

The village, or town—for such it was in the acceptation of 
the time and country — may well deserve some little descrip¬ 
tion ; not for its intrinsic importance, but because it will be 
found to resemble some ten out of every dozen of the country 
towns in all the corresponding region. It consisted of thirty or 
forty dwellings, chiefly of logs; not, however, so immediately 
in the vicinity of one another as to give any very decided air 
of regularity and order to their appearance. As usual, in all 
the interior settlements of the South and West, wherever an 
eligible situation presented itself, the squatter laid the founda¬ 
tion-logs of his dwelling, and proceeded to its erection. No 
public squares, and streets laid out by line and rule, marked 
conventional progress in an orderly and methodical society; 
but, regarding individual convenience as the only object in ar¬ 
rangements of this nature, they took little note of any other, 
and to them less important matters. They built where the 
land rose into a ridge of moderate and gradual elevation, 
commanding a long reach of prospect; where a good spring 
threw out its crystal waters, jetting, in winter and summer 


MARK FORRESTER — THE GOLD VILLAGE. 


61 


alike, from the hillside or the rock ; or, in its absence, where a 
fair branch, trickling over a bed of small and yellow pebbles, 
kept up a perpetually clear and undiminishing current; where 
the groves were thick and umbrageous ; and lastly, but not less 
important than either, where agues and fevers came not, bring¬ 
ing clouds over the warm sunshine, and taking all the hue, and 
beauty, and odor from the flower. These considerations were 
at all times the most important to the settler when the place of 
his abode was to be determined upon; and, with these advan¬ 
tages at large, the company of squatters, of whom Mark For¬ 
rester, made one, by no means the least important among them, 
had regularly, for the purposes of gold-digging, colonized the 
little precinct into which we have now ventured to penetrate. 
Before we advance farther in our narrative, it may be quite 
as well to say, that the adventurers of which this wild congre¬ 
gation was made up were impelled to their present common 
centre by motives and influences as various as the differing fea¬ 
tures of their several countenances. They came, not only from 
all parts ofHne surrounding country, but many of them from all 
parts of the surrounding world ; oddly and confusedly jumbled 
together; the very otia-podrid/i of moral and mental combina¬ 
tion. They were chiefly those to whom the ordinary operations 
of human trade or labor had proved tedious or unproductive — 
with whom the toils, aims, and impulses of society were de¬ 
ficient of interest; or, upon whom, an inordinate desire of a 
sudden to acquire wealth had exercised a sufficiently active in¬ 
fluence to impel to the novel employment of gold-finding—or 
rather gold -seeking, for it was not always that the search was 
successful—the very name of such a pursuit carrying with it to 
many no small degree of charm and persuasion. To these, a 
wholesome assortment of other descriptions may be added, of 
character and caste such as will be found ordinarily to compose 
everywhere the frontier and outskirts of civilization, as rejected 
by the wholesome current, and driven, like the refuse and the 
scum of the waters, in confused stagnation to their banks and 
margin. Here, alike, came the spendthrift and the indolent, 
the dreamer and the outlaw, congregating, though guided by 
contradictory impulses, in the formation of a common caste, and 
in the pursuit of a like object — some with the. view to profit and 


62 


GUY RIVERS. 


gain; others, simply from no alternative being left them; and that 
of gold-seeking, with a better sense than their neighbors, being 
in their own contemplation, truly, a dernier resort. 

The reader can better conceive than we describe, the sorts of 
people, passions, and pursuits, herding thus confusedly together; 
and with these various objects. Others, indeed, came into the 
society, like the rude but honest woodman to whom we have al¬ 
ready afforded an introduction, almost purely from a spirit of 
adventure, that, growing impatient of the confined boundaries 
of its birthplace, longs to tread new regions and enjoy new 
pleasures and employments. A spirit, we may add, the same, 
or not materially differing from that, which, at an earlier period 
of human history, though in a condition of society not dissimi¬ 
lar, begot the practices denominated, by a most licentious cour¬ 
tesy, those of chivalry. 

But, of whatever stuff the morale of this people may have 
been made up, it is not less certain than natural that the mix¬ 
ture was still incoherent — the parts had not yet grown to¬ 
gether. Though ostensibly in the pursuit of the same interest 
and craft, they had anything but a like fortune, and the degree 
of concert and harmony which subsisted between them was but 
shadowy and partial. A mass so heterogeneous in its origin 
and tendency might not so readily amalgamate. Strife, discon¬ 
tent, and contention, were not unfrequent; and the laborers at 
the same instrument, mutually depending on each other, not un¬ 
commonly came to blows over it. The successes of any one m 
dividual — for, as yet, their labors were unregulated by arrange¬ 
ment, and each worked on his own score—procured for him the 
hate and envy of some of the company, while it aroused the ill- 
disguised dissatisfaction of all; and nothing was of more com¬ 
mon occurrence, than, when striking upon a fruitful and 
productive section, even among those interested in the dis¬ 
covery, to find it a disputed dominion. Copartners no longer, 
a division of the spoils, when accumulated, was usually 
terminated by a resort to blows; and the bold spirit and the 
strong hand, in this way, not uncommonly acquired the share 
for which the proprietor was too indolent to toil in the manner 
of his companions. 

Th< issue of these conflicts, as may be imagined, was some- 


MAIIK FORRESTER — THE GOLD VILLAGE. 63 

;lmes wounds and bloodshed, and occasionally death : the field, 
we need scarcely add — since this is the history of all usurpa¬ 
tion—remaining, in every such case, in possession of the party 
proving itself most courageous or strong. Nor need this history 
surprise — it is history, veracious and sober history of a period, 
still within recollection, and of events of almost recent occur¬ 
rence. The wild condition of the country — the absence of all 
civil authority, and almost of laws, certainly of officers suffi¬ 
ciently daring to undertake their honest administration, and 
shrinking from the risk of incurring, in the performance of their 
duties, the vengeance of those, who, though disagreeing among 
themselves, at all times made common cause against the minis¬ 
ters of justice as against a common enemy —may readily ac¬ 
count for the frequency and impunity with which these desper¬ 
ate men committed crime and defied its consequences. 

But we are now fairly in the centre of the village — a fact of 
which, in the case of most southern and western villages, it is 
necessary in so many words to apprize the traveller. In those 
parts, the scale by which towns are laid out is always magnifi¬ 
cent. The founders seem to have calculated usually upon a 
population of millions; and upon spots and sporting-grounds, 
measurable by the Olympic coursers, and the ancient fields of 
combat, when scythes and elephants and chariots made the 
warriors, and the confused cries of a yelping multitude com¬ 
posed the conflict itself. There was no want of room, no risk 
of narrow streets and pavements, no deficiency of area in the 
formation of public squares. The houses scattered around the 
traveller, dotting at long and unfrequent intervals the ragged 
wood which enveloped them, left few stirring apprehensions of 
their firing one another. The forest, where the land was not 
actually built upon, stood up in its primitive simplicity undis- 
lionored by the axe. 

Such was the condition of the settlement at the period when 
our hero so unconsciously entered it. It was night, and the 
lamps of the village were all in full blaze, illuminating with an 
effect the most picturesque and attractive the fifty paces imme¬ 
diately encircling them. Each dwelling boasted of this auxiliai 
and attraction; and in this particular but few cities afford so 
abundantly the materials for a blaze as x>ur country villages, 


GUY K1VER3. 


i4 

Three or four slight posts are erected at convenient distances 
from each other in front of the building—a broad scaffold, 
sufficiently large for the purpose, is placed upon them, on which 
a thick coat of clay is plastered; at evening, a pile is built 
upon this, of dry timber and the rich pine which overruns and 
mainly marks the forests of the south. Those piles, in a blaze, 
serve the nightly strollers of the settlement as guides and bea¬ 
cons, and with their aid Forrester safely wound his way into 
the little village of Chestatee. 

Forming a square in the very centre of the town, a cluster 
of four huge fabrics, in some sort sustained the pretensions of 
the settlement to this epithet. This ostentatious collection, 
some of the members of which appeared placed there rather for 
show than service, consisted of the courthouse, the jail, the 
tavern, and the shop of the blacksmith — the two last-mentioned 
being at all times the very first in course of erection, and the 
essential nucleus in the formation of the southern and western 
settlement. The courthouse and the jail, standing directly 
opposite each other, carried in their faces a family outline of 
sympathetic and sober gravity. There had been some effect at 
pretension in their construction, both being cumbrously large, 
awkward, and unwieldy ; and occupying, as they did, the only 
portion of the village which had been stripped of its forest 
covering, bore an aspect of mutual and ludicrous wildness and 
vacancy. They had both been built upon a like plan and equal 
scale; and the only difference existing between them, but one that 
was immediately perceptible to the eye, was the superfluous 
abundance of windows in the former, and their deficiency in 
the latter. A moral agency had most probably prompted the 
architect to the distinction here hit upon — and he felt, doubt¬ 
less, in admitting free access to the light in the house of justice, 
and in excluding it almost entirely from that of punishment, 
that he had recognised the proprieties of a most excellent taste 
and true judgment. These apertures, clumsily wrought in the 
logs of which the buildings were made, added still more to their 
generally uncouth appearance. There was yet, however, 
another marked difference between the courthouse and jail, 
which we sh uld not omit to notice. The former had the 
advantage o its neighbor, in being surmounted by a small 


MARK FORRESTER-THE GOLD VILLAGE. 


05 


tower or cupola, in which a bell of moderate size hung sus- 
pended, permitted to speak only on such important occasions 
as the opening of court, sabbath service, and the respective 
anniversaries of the birthday of Washington and the Declara¬ 
tion of Independence. This building, thus distinguished abovo 
its fellows, served also all the purposes of a place of worship, 
whenever some wandering preacher found his way into the 
settlement; an occurrence, at the time we write, of very occa¬ 
sional character. To each of the four vast walls of the jail, in 
a taste certainly not bad, if we consider the design and charac¬ 
ter of the fabric, but a single Avindow was allotted—that too of 
the very smallest description for human uses, and crossed at 
right angles with rude and slender bars of iron, the choicest 
specimens of workmanship from the neighboring smithy. The 
distance between each of these four equally important buildings 
was by no means inconsiderable, if we are required to make 
the scale for our estimate, that of the cramped and diminished 
limits accorded to like places in the cities, where men and 
women appear to increase in due proportion as the field lessens 
upon which they must encounter in the great struggle for exist¬ 
ence. Though neighbors in every substantial respect, the four 
fabrics were most uncharitably remote, and stood frowning 
gloomily at one another—scarcely relieved of the cheerless 
and sombre character of their rough outsides, even when thus 
brightly illuminated by the glare thrown upon them by the 
several blazes, flashing out upon the scene from the twin lamps 
in front of the tavern, through whose wide and unsashed win¬ 
dows an additional lustre, as of many lights, gave warm indica¬ 
tions of life and good lodgings within. At a point equidistant 
from, and forming one of the angles of the same square with 
each of these, the broader glare from the smith’s furnace 
streamed in bright lines across the plain between, pouring 
through the unclayed logs of the hovel, in which, at his craft, 
the industrious proprietor was even then busily employed. Oc¬ 
casionally, the sharp click of his hammer, ringing upon and 
resounding from the anvil, and a full blast from the capacious 
bellows, indicated the busy animation, if not the sweet concert, 
the habitual cheerfulness and charm, of a more civilized and 
better regulate . society. 


GUY RIVEIte. 


(it) 


Nor was the smith, at the moment of our entrance, the only 
noisy member of the little village. The more pretending 
establishment to which we are rapidly approaching, threw out 
its clamors, and the din of many voices gathered upon the 
breeze in wild and incoherent confusion. Deep bursts of laugh¬ 
ter, and the broken stanza of an occasional catch roared out at 
intervals, promised something of relief to the dull mood; while, 
as the sounds grew more distinct, the quick ear of Forrester was 
enabled to distinguish the voices of the several revellers. 

“ There they are, in full blast,” he muttered, “ over a gallon 
of whiskey, and gulping it down as if ’twas nothing better than 
common water. But, what’s the great fuss to-night ? There’s a 
crowd, I reckon, and they’re a running their rigs on somebody.” 

Even Forrester was at a loss to account for their excess of 
hilarity to-night. Though fond of drink, and meeting often in 
a crowd, they were few of them of a class—using his own 
phrase — “to give so much tongue over their liquors.” The 
old toper and vagabond is usually a silent drinker. His amuse¬ 
ments, when in a circle, and with a bottle before him, are found 
in cards and dice. His cares, at such a period, are too consid¬ 
erate to suffer him to be noisy. Here, in Chestatee, Forrester 
well knew that a crowd implied little good-fellowship. The 
ties which brought the gold-seekers and squatters together were 
not of a sort to produce cheerfulness and merriment. Their 
very sports were savage, and implied a sort of fun which com¬ 
monly gave pain to somebody. He wondered, accordingly, 
as he listened to yells of laughter, and discordant shouts of 
hilarity; and he grew curious about the occasion of uproar. 

“ They’re poking fun at some poor devil, that don’t quite see 
what they’re after.” 

A nearer approach soon gave him a clue to the mystery; but 
all his farther speculations upon it were arrested, by a deep 
groan from the wounded man, and a writhing movement in the 
bottom of the wagon, as the wheel rolled over a little pile of 
stones in the road. 

Forrester’s humanity checked his curiosity. He stooped to 
the sufferer, composed his limbs upon the straw, and, as the 
vehicle, by this time, had approached the tavern, he ordered the 
wagoner to drive to the rear of the building, that the wounded 


MARK FORRESTER — THE GOLD VILLAGE. 67 

man might lose, as much as possible, the sounds of clamor which 
steadily rose from the hall in front. When the wagon stopped, 
he procured proper help, and, with the tenderest care, assisted to 
bear our unconscious traveller 'from the vehicle, into the upper 
story of the house, where he gave him his own bed, left him in 
charge of an old negro, and hurried away in search of that 
most important person of the place, the village-doctor. 

. v 7 •; ’ r '-T K 0 


j : 9£l‘ 


r* hr, t t 


. i r\t 


6S 


GUY RIVERS 


CHAPTER VI. 

CODE AND PRACTICE OF THE REGULATORS. 

Forrester was fleet of foot, and the village-doctor not 
distant. He was soon procured, and, prompt of practice, the 
hurts of Ralph Colleton were found to be easily medicable. 
The wound was slight, the graze of a bullet only, cutting some 
smaller blood-vessels, and it was only from the loss of blood 
that insensibility had followed. The moderate skill of our 
country-surgeon was quite equal to the case, and soon enabled 
him to put the mind of Mark Forrester, who was honestly and 
humanely anxious, at perfect rest on the subject of his unknown 
charge. With the dressing of his wound, and the application 
of restoratives, the consciousness of the youth returned, and he 
was enabled to learn how he had been discovered, where he 
was, and to whom he was indebted for succor in the moment of 
his insensibility. 

Ralph Colleton, of course, declared his gratitude in warm 
and proper terms; but, as enjoined by the physician, he was dis¬ 
couraged from all unnecessary speech. But he was not denied 
to listen, and Forrester was- communicative, as became his 
frank face and honest impulses. The brief questions of Ralph 
obtained copious answers; and, for an hour, the woodman 
cheered the solitude of his chamber, by the narration of such 
matters as were most likely to interest his hearer, in respect to 
the new region where he was, perforce, kept a prisoner. Of 
Chestatee, and the people thereof, their employment, and the 
resources of the neighborhood, Forrester gave a pretty correct 
account; though he remained prudently silent in regard to the 
probable parties to that adventure in which his hearer had re 
ceived his hurt. 


CODE AND PRACTICE OF THE REGULATORS. 


69 


From speaking of these subjects, the transition was natural 
to the cause of uproar going on below stairs. The sounds of 
the hubbub penetrated the chamber of the wounded man, and 
he expressed some curiosity in respect to it. This was enough 
for the woodman, who had partially informed himself, by a free 
conversation with the wagoner who drove the vehicle which 
brought Ralph to the tavern. He had caught up other details 
as he hurried to and fro, when he ran for the doctor. He was 
thus prepared to satisfy the youth’s inquiry. 

“Well, squire, did you ever see a live Yankee?” 

The youth smiled, answering affirmatively. 

“ He’s a pedler, you know, and that means a chap what can 
wheedle the eyes out of your head, the soul out of your body, 
the gould out of your pocket, and give you nothing but brass, 
and tin, and copper, in the place of ’em. Well, all the hubbub 
you hear is jest now about one of these same Yankee pediets. 
The regilators have caught the varmint — one Jared Buncc, as 
he calls himself—and a more cunning, rascally, presumptions 
critter don’t come out of all Connecticut. He’s been a cheating 
and swindling all the old women round the country. He’ll pay 
for it now, and no mistake. The regilators caught him about 
three hours ago, and they’ve brought him here for judgment 
and trial. They’ve got a jury setting on his vart.ues, and 
they’ll hammer the soul out of him afore they let him git out 
from under the iron. I don’t reckon they kin cure him, for 
what’s bred in the bone, you know, won’t come out of the flesh ; 
but they’ll so bedevil bone and flesh, that I reckon he’ll be the 
last Yankee that ever comes to practice again in this Chestatee 
country. Maybe, he ain’t deserving of much worse than they 
kin do. Maybe, he ain’t a scamp of the biggest wethers. His 
rascality ain’t to be measured. Why, he kin walk through a 
man’s pockets, jest as the devil goes through a crack or a key¬ 
hole, and the money will naterally stick to him, jest as of he 
was made of gum turpentine. His very face is a sort of kining 
[coining] machine. His look says dollars and cents ; and its 
always your dollars and cents, and he kines them out of your 
hands into his ’n, jest with a roll of his eye, and a mighty leetle 
turn of his finger. He cheats in everything, and cheats every¬ 
body. Thar’s not an old woman fin the country that don’t say 


70 


GUY RIVERS. 


her prayers back’ards when she thinks of Jared Bunce. Thar’s 
his tin-wares and his wood-wares—his coffeepots and kettles, 
all put together with saft sodder—that jest go to pieces, as ef 
they had nothing else to do. And he kin blarney you so—and 
he’s so quick at a mortal lie — and he’s got jest a good reason 
for everything—and he’s so sharp at a ’scuse [excuse] that it’s 
onpossible to say where lie’s gwine to have you, and what 
you’re a gwine to lose, and how you’ll get oft' at last, and in 
what way he’ll cheat you another time. He’s been at this 
business, in these diggings, now about three years. Theregila- 
tors have swore a hundred times to square off with him; but 
he’s always got off tell now; sometimes by new inventions — 
sometimes by bible oaths—and last year, by regilarly cutting 
dirt [flight]. He’s hardly a chance to git cl’ar now, for tliereg- 
ilators are pretty much up to all his tricks, and he’s mighty 
nigh to ride a rail for a colt, and get new scores ag’in old scores, 
laid on with the smartest hickories in natur’.” 

“And who are the regulators'?” asked the youth, languidly. 

“What! you from Georgy, and never to hear tell of thereg- 
ilators ? Why, that’s the very place, I reckon, where the breed 
begun. The regilators are jest then, you see, our own people. 
We liain’t got much law and justice in these pairts, and when 
the rascals git too sassy and plentiful, we all turn out, few or 
many, and make a business of cleaning out the stables. We 
turn justices, and sheriffs, and lawyers, and settle scores with 
the growing sinners. We jine, hand in hand, agin such a chap 
as Jared Bunce, and set in judgment upon his evil-doings. It’s 
a regilar court, though we make it up ourselves, and app’ints 
our own judges and juries, and pass judgment ’cordin’ to the 
case. Ef it’s the first offence, or only a small one, we let’s the 
fellow off with only a taste of the hickory. Ef it’s a tough case, 
and an old sinner, we give him a belly-full. Ef the whole coun¬ 
try’s roused, then Judge Lynch puts on his black cap, and the 
rascal takes a hard ride on a rail, a duck in the pond, and a 
perfect seasoning of hickories, tell thar ain’t much left of him, 
or, may be, they don’t stop to curry him, but jest halters him at 
once to the nearest swinging limb.” 

“ Sharp justice! and which of these punishments will they be 
likely to bestow upon the Yankee 1 ?” 


CODE AND PRACTICE OP THE REGULATORS. 71 

“Well, tliar’s no telling; but I reckon lie runs a smart 
chance of grazing agin the whole on ’em. They’ve got i long 
account agin him. In one way or t’other, lie’s swindled every¬ 
body with his notions. Some bought his clocks, which only 
went while the rogue stayed, and when he went they stopt for¬ 
ever. Some bought ready-made clothes, which went to pieces 
at the very sight of soap and water. He sold a fusee to old 
Jerry Seaborn, and warranted the piece, and it bursted into 
flinders, the very first fire, and tore little Jerry’s hand and arm 
— son of old Jerry—almost to pieces. He’ll never have the 
right use of it agin. And that ain’t all. Thar’s no counting up 
his offences.” 

“ Bad as the fellow is, do you think it possible that they wili 
torture him as you describe, or hang him, without law, and a 
fair trial 

“ Why, Lord love you, ha’n’t I told you that he’ll have a fair 
trial, afore the regilators, and thar’ll be any number of witnes¬ 
ses, and judges, and sheriffs, and executioners. But, ef you 
know’d Bunce, you’d know that a fair trial is the very last mar- 
cy that he’d aix of Providence. Don’t you think now that he’ll 
git anything worse than his righteous desarvings. He’s a fel¬ 
low that’s got no more of a saving soul in him than my whip- 
handle, and ain’t half so much to be counted on in a fight. He’s 
jest now nothing but a cheat and a swindle from head to foot; 
liain’t got anything but cheat in him — hain’t got room for any 
principle— -not enough either to git drunk with a friend, or have 
it out, in a fair fight, with his enemy. I shouldn’t myself wish 
to see the fellow’s throat cut, but I ain’t slow to say that I shall 
go for his tasting a few hickories, after that a dip in the horse- 
pond, and then a permit to leave the country by the shortest 
cut, and without looking behind him, under penalty of having 
the saft places on his back covered with the petticoats of Lot’s 
wife, that we hear of in the Scriptures.” 

Ralph Colleton was somewhat oppressed with apathy, and lie 
knew how idle would be any attempt to lessen the hostility of 
the sturdy woodman, in respect to the wretched class of traders, 
such as were described in Jared Bunce, by whom the simple 
and dependent borderers in the South and West, were shock¬ 
ingly imposed upon. He made but a feeble effort accordingly, in 


72 


GUY RIVERS. 


this direction, but was somewhat more earnest in insisting upon 
the general propriety of forbearance, in a practice which milita¬ 
ted against law and order, and that justice should be adminis¬ 
tered only by the proper hands. But to this, Mark Forrester 
had his ready answer; and, indeed, our young traveller was 
speaking according to the social standards of a wholly different 
region. 

“ There, again, ’squire, you are quite out. The laws, some¬ 
how or other, can’t touch these fellows. They run through the 
country a wink faster than the sheriff, and laugh at all the pro¬ 
cesses you send after them. So, you see, there’s no justice, no 
how, unless you catch a rogue like this, and wind up with him 
for all the gang—for they’re all alike, all of the same family, 
and it comes to the same thing in the end.” 

The youth answered languidly. He began to tire, and na¬ 
ture craved repose, and the physician had urged it. Forrester 
readily perceived that the listener’s interest was flagging—nay, 
he half fancied that much that he had been saying, and in his 
best style, had fallen upon drowsy senses. Nobody likes to 
have his best things thrown away, and, as the reader will readi¬ 
ly conceive, our friend Forrester had a sneaking consciousness 
that all the world’s eloquence did not cease on the day when 
Demosthenes died. But he was not the person to be offended 
because the patient desired to sleep. Far from it. He was 
only reasonable enough to suppose that this was the properest 
thing that the wounded man could do. And so he told him; 
and adjusting carefully the pillows of the youth, and disposing 
the bedclothes comfortably, and promising to see him again be¬ 
fore he slept, our woodman bade him good night, and descended 
to the great hall of the tavern, where Jared Bunce was held in 
durance. 

The luckless pedler was, in truth, in a situation in which, for 
the first time in his life, he coveted nothing. The peril was 
one, also, from which, thus far, his mother-wit, which seldom 
failed before, could suggest no means of evasion or escape. 
His prospect was a dreary one; though with the wonderful 
capacity for endurance, and the surprising cheerfulness, common 
to the class to which he belonged, he beheld it without dismay 
though with many apprehensions. 


CODE AND PRACTICE OF THE REGULATORS. 73 

Justice he did not expect, nor, indeed, as Forrester has 
already told us, did he desire it. He asked for nothing less 
than justice. He was dragged before judges, all of whom had 
complaints to prefer, and injuries to redress; and none of whom 
were over-scrupulous as to the nature or measure of that punish¬ 
ment which was to procure them the desired atonement. The 
company was not so numerous as noisy. It consisted of some 
twenty persons, villagers as well as small farmers in the neigh¬ 
borhood, all of whom, having partaken ad libitum of the whis¬ 
key distributed freely about the table, which, in part, they 
surrounded, had, in the Indian phrase, more tongues than brains, 
and were sufficiently aroused by their potations to enter readily 
into any mischief. Some were smoking with all the industrious 
perseverance of the Hollander; others shouted forth songs in 
honor of the bottle, and with all the fervor and ferment of 
Bacchanalian novitiates; and not a few, congregating about the 
immediate person of the pedler, assailed his ears with threats 
sufficiently pregnant with tangible illustration to make him un¬ 
derstand and acknowledge, by repeated starts and wincings, the 
awkward and uncomfortable predicament in which he stood. 
At length, the various disputants for justice, finding it difficult, 
if not impossible, severally, to command that attention which 
they conceived they merited, resolved themselves into some¬ 
thing like a committee of the whole, and proceeded to the settle¬ 
ment of their controversy, and the pedler’s fate, in a manner 
more suited to the importance of the occasion. Having pro¬ 
cured that attention which was admitted to be the great object, 
more by the strength of his lungs than his argument, one of the 
company, who was dignified by the title of colonel, spoke out 
for the rest. 

“ I say, boys—’tisn’t of any use, I reckon, for everybody to 
speak about what everybody knows. One speaker’s quite 
enough in this here matter before us, Here’s none of us that 
ha’n’t something to say agin this pedler, and the doings of the 
grand scoundrel in and about these parts, for a matter going on 
now about three years. Why, everybody knows him, big and 
little; and his reputation is so now, that the very boys take his 
name to frighten away the crows with. Now, one person can 
jist as well make a plain statement as another. I know, of my 

4 


74 


GUY RIVERS. 


own score, there’s not one of my neighbors for ten miles round, 
that can’t tell all about the rotten prints he put off upon my old 
woman ; and I know myself of all the tricks lie’s played at odd 
times, more than a dozen, upon ’Squire Nichols there, and Tom 
Wescott, and Bob Snipes, and twenty others; and everybody 
knows them just as well as I. Now, to make up the score, and 
square off with the pedler, without any flustration, I move you 
that Lawyer Pippin take the chair, and judge in this matter; 
for the day has come for settling off accounts, and 1 don’t see 
why we shouldn’t be the regulators for Bunce, seeing that every¬ 
body agrees that lie’s a rogue, and a pestilence, and desarves 
regilation.” 

This speech was highly applauded, and chimed in admirably 
with all prejudices, and the voice that called Lawyer Pippin to 
preside over the deliberations of the assembly was unanimous. 
The gentleman thus highly distinguished, was a dapper and 
rather portly little personage, with sharp twinkling eyes, a ruby 
and remarkable nose, a double chin, retreating forehead, and 
corpulent cheek. He wore green glasses of a dark, and a green 
coat of a light, complexion. The lawyer was the only member 
of the profession living in the village, had no competitor save 
when the sitting of the court brought in one or more from neigh¬ 
boring settlements, and, being thus circumstanced, without op¬ 
position, and the only representative of his craft, he w'as liter¬ 
ally, to employ the slang phrase in that quarter, the “ cock of 
the walk.” He was, however, not so much regarded by the 
villagers a worthy as a clever man. It required not erudition 
to win the credit of profundity, and the lawyer knew how to 
make the most of his learning among those who had none. 
Like many other gentlemen of erudition, he -was grave to a 
proverb when the occasion required it, and would not be seen 
to laugh out of the prescribed place, though “ Nestor swore the 
jest was laughable.” He relied greatly on saws and sayings 
— could quote you the paradoxes of Johnson and the infidelities 
of Hume without always understanding them, and mistook, as 
men of that kind and calibre are very apt to do, the capacity 
to repeat the grave absurdities of others as a proof of some¬ 
thing in himself. His business was not large, however, and 
among the arts of his profession, and as a means for supplying 


CODE AND PRACTICE OF THE REGULATORS. 


75 


the absence of more legitimate occasions for its employment, 
he was reputed as excessively expert in making the most of any 
difficulty among his neighbors. The egg of mischief and con¬ 
troversy was hardly laid, before the worthy lawyer, with mater¬ 
nal care, came clucking about it; he watched and warmed it 
without remission; and when fairly hatched, he took care that 
the whole brood should be brought safely into court, his voice, 
and words, and actions, fully attesting the deep interest in their 
fortunes which he had manifested from the beginning. Many a 
secret slander, ripening at length into open warfare, had been 
traced to his friendly influence, either ab ovo , or at least from 
the perilous period in such cases when the very existence of 
the embryo relies upon the friendly breath, the sustaining 
warmth, and the occasional stimulant. Lawyer Pippin, among 
his neighbors, was just the man for such achievements, and they 
gave him, with a degree of shrewdness common to them as a 
people, less qualified credit for the capacity which he at all 
times exhibited in bringing a case into, than in carrying it out 
of court. But this opinion in nowise affected the lawyer’s own 
estimate of his pretensions. Next to being excessively mean, 
he was excessively vain, and so highly did he regard his own 
opinions, that he was never content until he heard himself 
busily employed in their utterance. An opportunity for a 
speech, such as the present, was not suffered to pass without 
due regard; but as we propose that he shall exhibit himself in 
the most happy manner at a later period in our narrative, we 
shall abridge, in few, the long string of queerly-associated words 
in the form of a speech, which, on assuming the chair thus as¬ 
signed him, he poured forth upon the assembly. After a long 
prefatory, apologetic, and deprecatory exordium, in which his 
own demerits, as is usual with small speakers, were strenuously 
urged; and after he had exhausted most of the commonplaces 
about the purity of the ermine upon the robes of justice, and the 
golden scales, and the unshrinking balance, and the unsparing 
and certain sword, he went on thus:— 

“ And now, my friends, if I rightly understand the responsi¬ 
bility and obligations of the station thus kindly conferred upon 
me, I am required to arraign the pedlcr, Jared Bunce, before 
you, on behalf of the country, which country, as the clerk reads 


76 


GUY RIVERS. 


it, you undoubtedly are; and here let me remark, my fr ends, 
the excellent and nice distinction which this phrase makes 
between the man and the soil, between the noble intellect and 
the high soul, and the mere dirt and dust upon which we daily 
tread. This very phrase, my friends, is a fine embodiment of 
that democratic principle upon which the glorious constitution 
i& erected. But, as I was saying, my friends, I am required to 
arraign before you this same pedler, Jared Bunce, on sundry 
charges of misdemeanor, and swindling, and fraud — in short, as 
I understand it, for endeavoring, without having the fear of 
God and good breeding in his eyes, to pass himself off upon 
the good people of this county as an honest man. Is this the 
charge, my friends V* 

“ Ay, ay, lawyer, that’s the how, that’s the very thing itself. 
Put it to the skunk, let him deny that if he can — let him deny 
that his name is Jared Bunce — that he hails from Connecticut 
—that he is a shark, and a pirate, and a pestilence. Let him 
deny that he is a cheat — that he goes about with his notions 
and other rogueries—that he doesn’t manufacture maple-seeds, 
and hickory nutmegs, and ground coffee made out of rotten rye. 
Answer to that, Jared Bunce, you white-livered lizard.” 

Tlius did one of his accusers take up the thread of the dis¬ 
course as concluded in part by the chairman. Another and 
another followed with like speeches in the most rapid succession, 
until all was again confusion; and the voice of the lawyer, 
after a hundred ineffectual efforts at a hearing, degenerated into 
a fine squeak, and terminated at last in a violent fit of cough¬ 
ing, that fortunately succeeded in producing the degree of quiet 
around him to secure which his language had, singularly enough, 
entirely failed. For a moment the company ceased its clamor, 
out of respect to the chairman’s cough ; and, having cleared his 
throat with the contents of a tumbler of Monongahela which 
seemed to stand permanently full by his side, he recommenced 
the proceedings; the offender, in the meantime, standing mute 
and motionless, now almost stupified with terror, conscious of 
repeated offences, knowing perfectly the reckless spirit of those 
who judged him, and hopeless of escape from their hands, 
witlumt, in the country phrase, the loss at least of “wing and 
tail feathers.” The chairman with due gravity began : — 


CODE AND PRACTICE OP THE REGULATORS. 77 

“ Jared Bunce — is that your name •?” 

“ Why, lawyer, I can’t deny that I have gone by that name, 
and I guess it’s the right name for me to go by, seeing that I 
was christened Jared, after old Uncle Jared Withers, that lives 
down at Dedham, in the state of Massachusetts. He did prom¬ 
ise to do something for me, seeing I was named after him, hut 
he ha’n’t done nothing yet, no how. Then the name of Bunce, 
you see, lawyer, I got from my father, his name being Bunce, 
too, I guess.” 

“Well, Jared Bunce, answer to the point, and without cir¬ 
cumlocution. You have heard some of the charges against you. 
Having taken them down in short-hand, I will repeat them.” 

The pedler approached a few steps, advanced one leg, raised 
a hand to his ear, and put on all the external signs of devout 
attention, as the chairman proceeded in the long and curious 
array. 

“ First, then, it is charged against you, Bunce, by young Dick 
Jenkins, that stands over in front of you there, that somewhere 
between the fifteenth and twenty-third of June—last June was 
a year — you came by night to his plantation, he living at that 
time in De Kalb county; that you stopped the night with him, 
without charge, and in the morning you traded a clock to his 
wife for fifteen dollars, and that you had not been gone two 
days, before the said clock began to go whiz, whiz, whiz, and 
commenced striking, whizzing all the while, and never stopped 
till it had struck clear thirty-one, and since that time it will 
neither whiz, nor strike, nor do nothing.” 

“Why, lawyer, I ain’t the man to deny the truth of this 
transaction, you see; but, then, you must know, much depends 
upon the way you manage a clock. A clock is quite a delicate 
and ticklish article of manufacture, you see, and it ain’t every¬ 
body that can make a clock, or can make it go when it don’t 
want to; and if a man takes a hammer or a horsewhip, or any 
other unnatural weapon to it, as if it was a house or a horse, 
why, I guess, it’s not reasonable to expect it to keep in order, 
and it’s no use in having a clock no how, if you don’t treat it 
well. As for its striking thirty-one, that indeed is something 
remarkable, for I never heard one of mine strike more than 
twelve, and that's zactly the number they’re regulated to strike. 


78 


GUY RIVERS. 


But, after all, lawyer, I don’t see that Squire Jenkins has been 
much a loser by the trade, seeing that lie paid me in bills of the 
Hogee-nogee bank, and that stopped payment about the time, 
and before I could get the bills changed. It’s true, I didn’t let 
on that I knowed anything about it, and got rid of the paper a 
little while before the thing went through the country.” 

“Now, look ye, you gingerbread-bodied Yankee—I’d like to 
know what you mean about taking whip and hammer to the 
clock. If you mean to say that I ever did such a thing, I’ll 
lick you now, by the eternal scratch !” 

“ Order, order, Mr. Jenkins—order! The chair must be re¬ 
spected. You must come to order, Mr. Jenkins—” was the 
vociferous and urgent cry of the chairman, repeated by half a 
dozen voices; the pedler, in the meanwhile, half doubting the 
efficacy of the call, retreating with no little terror behind the 
chair of the dignified personage who presided. 

“ Well, you needn’t make such a howling about it,” said Jen¬ 
kins, wratlifully, and looking around him with the sullen fero¬ 
city of a chafed bear. “ 1 know jist as well how to keep order, 
I reckon, as any on you; but I don’t see how it will be out of 
order to lick a Yankee, or who can hinder me, if I choose it.” 

“Well, don’t look at me, Dick Jenkins, with such a look, or 
I’ll have a finger in that pie, old fellow. I’m no Yankee to be 
frightened by sich a lank-sided fellow as you; and, by dogs, if 
nobody else can keep you in order, I’m jist the man to try if I 
can’t. So don’t put on any shines, old boy, or I’ll darken your 
peepers, if I don’t come very nigh plucking them out alto 
getlier.” 

So spake another of the company, who, having been much 
delectified with the trial, had been particularly solicitous in his 
cries for order. Jenkins was not indisposed to the affray, and 
made an angry retort, which provoked another still more angry; 
but, other parties interfering, the new difficulty was made to 
give place to that already in hand. The imputation upon Jen¬ 
kins, that his ignorance of the claims of the clock to gentle 
treatment, alone, had induced it to speak thirty-one times, and 
at length refuse to speak at all, had touched his pride; and, 
sorely vexed, he retired upon a glass of whiskey to the farther 
cornel of the room, and with his pipe, nursing the fumes of his 


CODE AND PRACTICE OF THE REGULATORS. 79 

wrath, he waited impatiently the signal for the wild mischief 
which he knew would come. 

In the meanwhile, the examination of the culprit proceeded; 
but, as we can not hope to convey to the reader a description 
of the affair as it happened, to the life, we shall content our¬ 
selves with a brief summary. The chair went on rapidly enu¬ 
merating the sundry misdeeds of the Yankee, demanding, and 
in most cases receiving, rapid and unhesitating replies—eva¬ 
sively and adroitly framed, for the offender well knew that a 
single unlucky word or phrase would bring down upon his shoul¬ 
ders a wilderness of blows. 

“You arc again charged, Bunco, with having sold to Colonel 
Blundell a coffee-pot and two tin cups, all of which went to 
pieces — the solder melting off at the very sight of the hot 
water.” 

“Well, lawyer, it stands to reason I can’t answer for th^t. 
The tin wares I sell stand well enough in a northern climate: 
there may be some difference in yours that I can’t account for; 
and I guess, pretty much, there is. Now, your people are a 
mighty hot-tempered people, and take a fight for breakfast, and 
make three meals a day out of it: now, we in the north have 
no stomach for such fare; so here, now, as far as 1 can see, 
your climate takes pretty much after the people, and if so, it’s 
no wonder that solder can’t stand it. Who knows, again, but 
you boil your water quite too hot? Now, I guess, there’s jest 
as much harm in boiling water too hot, as in not boiling it hot 
enough. Who knows? All I can say is, that the lot of wares 
I bring to this market next season shall be calkilated on pur¬ 
pose to suit the climate.” 

The chairman seemed struck with this view of the case, and 
spoke wiu a gravity corresponding with the deep sagacity he 
conceived himself to have exhibited. 

“ There does seem to be something in this; and it stands to 
reason, what will do for a nation of pedlers won’t do for us. 
Why, when I recollect that they are buried in snows half the 
year, and living on nothing else the other half, I wonder how 
they get the water to boil at all. Answer that, Bunce.” 

“Well, lawyer, I guess you must have travelled pretty con¬ 
siderable down east in your time and fimong my people, for yon 


80 


GUY RIVERS. 


do seem to know all about the matter jest as well and something 
better than myself.” 

The lawyer, not a little flattered by the compliment so slyly 
and evasively put in, responded to the remark with a due regard 
to his own increase of importance. 

“ I am not ignorant of your country, pedler, and of the ways 
of its people; but it is not me that you arc to satisfy. Answer 
to the gentlemen around, if it is not a difficult matter for you to 
get water to boil at all during the winter months.” 

“ Why, to say the truth, lawyer, when coal is scarce and high 
in the market, heat is very hard to come. Now, I guess the 
ware I brought out last season was made under those circum¬ 
stances ; but I have a lot on hand now, which will be here in a 
day or two, which I should like to trade to the colonel, and I 
guess I may venture to say, all the hot water in the country 
won’t melt the solder off.” 

“ I tell you what, pedler, we are more likely to put you in 
hot water than try any more of your ware in that way. But 
where’s your plunder 1 ?—let us see this fine lot of notions you 
speak of” — was the speech of the colonel already so much pe- 
ferred to, and whose coffee-pot bottom furnished so broad a 
foundation for the trial. lie was a wild and roving person, to 
whom the tavern, and the racecourse, and the cockpit, from his 
very boyhood up, had been as the breath of life, and with whom 
the chance of mischief was never willingly foregone. But the 
pedler was wary, and knew his man. The lurking smile and 
sneer of the speaker had enough in them for the purposes of 
warning, and he replied evasively: — 

“Well, colonel, you shall see them by next Tuesday or 
Wednesday. I should be glad to have a trade with you — the 
money’s no object — and if you have furs, or skins, or anything 
that you like to get off your hands, there’s no difficulty, that I 
can see, to a long bargain.” 

“ But why not trade now, Bunce I—what’s to hinder us now ? 
I sha’n’t bo in the village after Monday.” 

“Well-, then, colonel, that’ll just suit me, for I did calkilate 
to call on you at the farm, on my way into the nation where 
I’m going looking out for furs.” 

“ Yes, and live on the best for a week, under some pretence 


CODE AND PRACTICE OF THE REGULATORS. 81 

that your nag is sick, or you sick, o r something in the way of a 
start —then go off, cheat, and laugh at me in the bargain. I 
reckon, old boy, you don’t come over me in that way again; 
and I’m not half done with you yet about the kettles. That 
story of yours about the hot and cold may do for the pigeons, 
but you don’t think the hawks will swallow it, do ye 1 Come — 
out with your notions !” 

“ Oh, to be sure, only give a body time, colonel,” as, pulled 
by the collar, with some confusion and in great trepidation, re¬ 
sponded the beleagured dealer in clocks and calicoes — “they 
shall all be here in a day or two at most. Seeing that one of 
my creatures was foundered, I had to leave the goods, and drive 
the other here without them.” 

The pedler had told the truth in part only. One of his horses 
had indeed struck lame, but he had made out to bring him to 
the village with all his wares; and this fact, as in those regions 
of question and inquiry was most likely to be the case, had al¬ 
ready taken wind. 

“ Now, look ye, Bunco, do you take me for a blear-eyed mole, 
that never seed the light of a man's eyes V’ inquired Blundell, 
closely approaching the beset tradesman, and taking him lei¬ 
surely by the neck. “ Do you want to take a summerset through 
that window, old fellow, that you try to stuff us with such tough 
stories ? If you do, I rctlier reckon you can do it without much 
difficulty.” Thus speaking, and turning to some of those around 
him, he gave directions which imparted to the limbs of the ped¬ 
ler a continuous and crazy motion, that made his teeth chatter. 

“ Hark ye, boys, jist step out, and bring in the cart of Jared 
Bunce, wheels and all, if so be that the body won’t come off 
easily. We’ll see for ourselves.” 

It was now the pedler’s turn for speech ; and, forgetting the 
precise predicament in which he personally stood, and only so¬ 
licitous to save his chattels from the fate which he plainly saw 
awaited them, his expostulations and entreaties were rapid and 
energetic. 

“Now, colonel—gentlemen—my good friends—to-morrow 
or the next day you shall see them all — I’ll go with you to 
your plantation—” 

“No, thank ye. I want none of your company—and, look 


8*2 


GUY RIVERS. 


ye, if you know when you’re well off, don’t undertake to call 
me your friend. I say, Mr. Chairman, if it’s in order—I don’t 
want to do anything disorderly—I move that Bunce’s cart be 
moved here into this very room, that we may see for ourselves 
the sort of substance he brings here to put off upon us.” 

The chairman had long since seemingly given up all hope of 
exercising, in their true spirit, the duties of the station which 
he held. For a while, it is true, he battled with no little en¬ 
ergy for the integrity of his dignity, with good lungs and a stout 
spirit; but, though fully a match in these respects for any one, 
or perhaps any two of his competitors, he found the task of con¬ 
tending Avith the dozen rather less easy, and, in a little while, 
his speeches, into which he had lugged many a choice ad cap - 
tandum of undisputed effect on any other occasion, having been 
completely merged and mingled with those of the mass, he 
wisely forbore any further waste of matter, in the stump-oratory 
of the South usually so precious; and, drawing himself up 
proudly and profoundly in his high place, he remained digni- 
fiedly sullen, until the special reference thus made by Colonel 
Blundell again opened the fountains of the oracle and set them 
flowing. 

The lawyer, thus appealed to, in a long tirade* and in his 
happiest manner, delivered his opinion in the premises, and in 
favor of the measure. How, indeed, could he do otherwise, 
and continue that tenacious pursuit of his own interests which 
had always been the primary aim and object, as well of the 
profession as the person. He at once sagaciously beheld the 
embryo lawsuit and contingent controversy about to result from 
the proposition; and, in his mind, with a far and free vision, 
began to compute the costs and canvass the various terms and 
prolonged trials of county court litigation. He saw fee after 
fee thrust into his hands—he beheld the opposing parties desi¬ 
rous to conciliate, and extending to him sundry of those equivo¬ 
cal courtesies, which, though they take not the shape of money 
are money’s worth, and the worthy chairman lad no scruples 
as to the propriety of the measure. The profits and pay once 
adjusted to his satisfaction, his spirit took a broad sweep, and 
the province of human fame, circumscribed, it is true, within 
the ten mile circuit of his horizon, was at once open before him, 


CODE AND PRACTICE OP THE REGULATORS. 


88 


He beheld the strife, and enjoyed the triumph over his fellow- 
laborers at the bar—he already heard the applauses of his 
neighbors at this or that fine speech or sentiment; and his form 
grew insensibly erect, and his eye glistened proudly, as he 
freely and fully assented to the measure which promised such 
an abundant harvest. Vainly did the despairing and dispirited 
pedler implore a different judgment; the huge box which cap¬ 
ped the body of his travelling vehicle, torn from its axle, with¬ 
out iny show of reverential respect for screw or fastening, was 
bornt in a moment through the capacious entrance of the hall, 
and placed conspicuously upon the table. 

“ The key, Bunce, the key!” was the demand of a dozen. 

The oedler hesitated for a second, aud the pause was fatal. 
Before In, could redeem his error, a blow from a hatchet settled 
the difficilty, by distributing the fine deal-box cover, lock and 
hinges, ir, fragments over the apartment. The revelation of 
wares ano fabrics — a strange admixture, with propriety desig¬ 
nated “ mtions”—brought all eyes immediately around, and 
rendered ; new order, for common convenience, necessary in 
the arrang,ment of the company. The chairman, chair and 
man, were in a moment raised to a corresponding elevation 
upon the t.ble, over the collection; and the controversy and 
clamor, fron concentrating, as it did before, upon the person 
of the pedlei were now transferred to the commodities he brought 
for sale. Oder having been at length obtained, Colonel Blun¬ 
dell undertook the' assertion of his own and the wrongs of his 
fellow-suffeers, and kept uninterrupted possession of the floor. 

“ And no% Mr. Chairman, I will jist go a little into the par¬ 
ticulars of te rogueries and rascalities of this same Yankee. 
Now, in thefirst place, he is a Yankee, and that’s enough, it¬ 
self, to bring lim to punishment—but we’ll let that pass, and 
go to his othe transactions—for, as I reckon, it’s quite punish¬ 
ment enough for that offence, to be jist what he is. He has 
traded rotten ruffs about the country, that went to pieces the 
fiist washing. He has traded calico prints, warranted for fast 
colors, that rarfaster than he ever ran himself. He has sold 
us tin stuffs, tht didn't stand hot water at all ; and then thinks 
to get off, by saing they were not made for our climate. And 
let me ask, Mrjhairman, if they wasn’t made for our climate, 


84 


GUY RIVERS. 


why did he bring ’em here ? let him come to the scratch, and 
answer that, neighbors—but he can’t. Well, then, as you’ve 
all hearn, he has traded clocks to us at money’s worth, that one 
day ran faster than a Virginny race-mare, and at the very next 
day, would strike lame, and wouldn’t go at all, neither for beat¬ 
ing nor coaxing—and besides all these doings, neighbors, if 
these an’t quite enough to carry a skunk to the horsepond, he 
has committed his abominations without number, all through 
the country high and low — for hain’t he lied and cheated, and 
then had the mean cowardice to keep out of the way of the 
regulators, who have been on the look-out for his tracks far the 
last half year? Now, if these things an’t desarving of punish¬ 
ment, there’s nobody fit to be hung—there’s nobody tli# ought 
to be whipped. Hickories oughtn’t to grow any loiger, and 
the best thing the governor can do would be to have all the 
jails burnt down from one eend of the country to tie other. 
The proof stands up agin Bunce, and there’s no defying it; 
and it’s no use, no how, to let this fellow come amonf us, year 
after year, to play the same old hand, take our moiey for his 
rascally goods, then go away and laugh at us. An<? the ques¬ 
tion before us is jist what I have said, and what siall we do 
with the critter ? To show you that it’s high time ;o do some¬ 
thing in the matter, look at this calico print, that i>oks, to be 
sure, very well to the eye, except, as you see, here’sa tree with 
red leaves and yellow flowers—a most ridiculous nc/ion, indeed, 
for who ever seed a tree with sich colors here, in tile very be¬ 
ginning of summer ?” i 

Here the pedler, for the moment, more solicitous ft* the credit 
of the manufactures than for his own safety, venturd to suggest 
that the print was a mere fancy, a matter of tasfa—in fact, a 
notion, and not therefore to be judged by the stndard which 
had been brought to decide upon its merits. He (lid not ven¬ 
ture, however, to say what, perhaps, would have jeen the true 
horr. of the difficulty, that the print was an autum or winter il¬ 
lustration, for that might have subjected him to eftdign punish¬ 
ment for its unseasonableness. As it was, the /efence set up 
was to the full as unlucky as any other might live been. 

“ I’ll tell you what, Master Bunce, it won’t d to take natur 
in vain. If v m can chow me a better painter tan natur, from 


CODE AND PRACTICE OF THE REGULATORS. 


85 


your pairts, I give up; but until that time, I say that any man 
who thinks to give the woods a different sort of face from what 
God give ’em, ought to be licked for his impudence if nothing 
else.” 

The pedler ventured again to expostulate; but the argument 
having been considered conclusive against him, he was made 
to hold his peace, while the prosecutor proceeded. 

“Now then, Mr. Chairman, as I was saying—here is a sam¬ 
ple of the kind of stuff he thinks to impose upon us. Look now 
at this here article, and I reckon it’s jist as good as any of the 
rest, arid say whether a little touch of Lynch’s law, an’t the 
very thing for the Yankee !” 

Holding up the devoted calico to the gaze of the assembly, 
with a single effort of liis strong and widely-distended arms, he 
rent it asunder Avitli little difficulty, the sweep not terminating, 
until the stuff, which, by-the-way, resigned itself without strug¬ 
gle or resistance to its fate, had been most completely and 
evenly divided. The poor pedler in vain endeavored to stay 
a ravage that, once begun, became epidemical. lie struggled 
and strove with tenacious hand, holding on to sundry of his 
choicest bales, and claiming protection from the chair, until 
warned of his imprudent zeal in behalf of goods so little deserv¬ 
ing of the risk, by the sharp and sudden application of an un¬ 
known hand to his ears which sent him reeling against the 
table, and persuaded him into as great a degree of patience, as, 
under existing circumstances, he could be well expected to ex¬ 
hibit. Article after article underwent a like analysis of its 
strength and texture, and a warm emulation took place among 
the rioters, as to their several capacities in the work of destruc¬ 
tion. The shining bottoms were torn from the tin-wares in 
order to prove that such a separation was possible, ancl it is 
doing but brief justice to the pedler to say, that, whatever, in 
fact, might have been the true character of his commodities, 
the very choicest of human fabrics could never have resisted 
the various tests of bone and sinew, tooth and nail, to which 
they were indiscriminately subjected. Immeasurable was the 
confusion that followed. All restraints were removed—all hin¬ 
drances withdrawn, and the tide rushed onward with a most 
headlong tendency. 


86 


GXJY RIVERS. 


Apprehensive of pecuniary responsibilities in his own person, 
and having his neighbors wrought to the desired pitch—fear¬ 
ing, also, lest his station might somewhat involve himself in the 
meshes he was weaving around others, the sagacious chairman, 
upon the first show of violence, roared out his resignation, and 
descended from his place. But this movement did not impair 
the industry of the regulators . A voice was heard proposing a 
bonfire of the merchandise, and no second suggestion was neces¬ 
sary. All hands but those of the pedler and the attorney were 
employed in building the pyre in front of the tavern some thirty 
yards; and here, in choice confusion, lay flaming calicoes, ille¬ 
gitimate silks, worsted hose, wooden clocks and nutmegs, maple- 
wood seeds of all descriptions, plaid cloaks, scents, and spices, 
jumbled up in ludicrous variety. A dozen hands busied them¬ 
selves in applying the torch to the devoted mass—howling over 
it, at every successive burst of flame that went up into the dark 
atmosphere, a savage yell of triumph that tallied well with the 
proceeding. 

“ Hurrah!” 

The scene was one of indescribable confusion. The rioters 
danced about the blaze like so many frenzied demons. Strange, 
no one attempted to appropriate the property that must have 
been a temptation to all. 

Our pedler, though he no longer strove to interfere, was by 
no means insensible to the ruin of his stock in trade. It was 
calculated to move to pity, in any other region, to behold him 
as he stood in the doorway, stupidly watching the scene, -while 
the big tears were slowly gathering in his eyes, and falling down 
his bronzed and furrowed cheeks. The rough, hard, unscrupu¬ 
lous man can always weep for himself. Whatever the demerits 
of the rogue, our young traveller above stairs, would have re¬ 
garded him as the victim of a too sharp justice. Not so the 
participators in the outrage. They had been too frequently the 
losers by the cunning practice of the pedler, to doubt for a mo¬ 
ment the perfect propriety—nay, the very moderate measure 
— of that wild justice which they were dealing out to his mis¬ 
deeds. And with this even, they were not satisfied. As the 
perishable calicoes roared up and went down in the flames, as 
the pans and pots and cupg melted away in the furnace heat, 


CODE AND PRACTICE OF THE REGULATORS. 87 

and the painted faces of the wooden clocks, glared out like 
those of John Rogers at the stake, enveloped in fire, the cries 
of the crowd were mingled in with a rude, -wild chorus, in which 
the pcdlcr was made to understand that he stood himself in a 
peril almost as great as his consuming chattels. It was the fa¬ 
mous ballad of the regulators that he heard, and it smote his 
heart with a consciousness of his personal danger that made 
him shiver in his shoes. The uncouth doggrel, recited in a 
lilting sort of measure, the peculiar and various pleasures of a 
canter upon a pine rail. It was clear that the mob were by no 
means satisfied with the small measure of sport which they had 
enjoyed. A single verse of this savage ditty will suffice/or the 
present, rolled out upon the air, from fifty voices, the very boys 
and negroes joining in the chorus, and making it tell terribly to 
the senses of the threatened person. First one voice would 
warble 

“ Did you ever, ever, ever!”— 

and there was a brief pause, at the end of which the crowd 
joined in with unanimous burst and tremendous force of lungs 

“ Did you ever, ever, ever, in your life ride a rail ? 

Such a deal of pleasure’s in it, that you never can refuse: 

You are mounted on strong shoulders, that’ll never, never fail, 

Though you pray’d with tongue of sinner, just to plant you where they 
choose. 

Though the brier patch is nigh you, looking up with thorny faces, 

They never wait to see how you like the situation, 

But down you go a rolling, through the penetrating places, 

Nor scramble out until you give the cry of approbation. 

Oh ! pleasant is the riding, highly-seated on the rail, 

And worthy of the wooden horse, the rascal that we ride: 

Let us see the mighty shoulders that will never, never fail. 

To lift him high, and plant him, on the crooked mil astride. 

The seven-sided pine rail, the pleasant bed of briar, 

The little touch of hickory law, with a dipping in the mire. 

“ Did you ever, ever, ever,” &c., 

from the troupe’in full blast! 

The lawyer Pippin suddenly stood beside the despairing 
pedlcr, as this ominous ditty was poured upon the night-winds. 

“ Do you hear that song, Bunce V* he asked. “ How do you 
like the music V' 


88 


GUY RIVERS. 


The pedlcr looked in his face with a mixed expression of 
grief, anger, and stupidity, but he said nothing. 

“ Hark ye, Bunco,” continued the lawyer. “ Do you know 
what that means'? Docs your brain take in its meaning, my 
friend ?” 

“ Friend, indeed !” was the very natural exclamation of the 
pedlcr as he shrank from the hand of the lawyer, which had 
been affectionately laid upon his shoulder. “ Friend, indeed ! 
1 say, Lawyer Pippin, if it hadn’t been for you, I’d never ha* 
been in this fix. I’m ruined by you.” 

“ Ituined by me ! Pshaw, Bunce, you are a fool. I was your 
friend all the time.” 

“ Oh, yes ! I can see how. But though you did stop, when 
they began, yet you did enough to set them on. That was like 
a good lawyer, I guess, but not so much like a friend. Had you 
been a friend, you could have saved my property from the be¬ 
ginning.” 

“ Nay, nay, Bunce; you do me wrong. They had sworn 
against you long ago, and you know them well enough. The 
devil himself couldn’t stop ’em when once upon the track. But 
don’t be down in the mouth. I can save you now.’ 

“ Save me!” 

“Ay ! don’t you hear 1 ? They’re singing the regulation song. 
Once that blaze goes down, they’ll be after you. It’s a wonder 
oliey’ve left you here so long. Now’s your time. You must be 
off. Fly by the back door, and leave it to me to get damages 
for your loss of property.” 

“ You, lawyer 1 well, I should like to know how you calkilate 
to do that ?” 

“ I’ll tell you. You know my profession.” 

“ I guess I do, pretty much.” 

“Thus, then—most of these are men of substance; at least 
they have enough to turn out a pretty good case each of them 
—now all you have to do is to bring suit. I’ll do all that, you 
know, the same as if you did-it yourself. You must lay your 
damages handsomely, furnish a few affidavits, put the business 
entirely in my hands, and—how much is the value of your 
goods'?” 


CODE AND PRACTICE OF THE REGULATORS. 89 

“Well, I guess they might he worth something over three 
hundred and twenty dollars and six shillings, York money.” 

“ Well, give me all the particulars, and I venture to assure you 
that I can get five hundred dollars damages at least, and per¬ 
haps a thousand. But of this we can talk more at leisure when 
you are in safety. Where’s your cart, Bunce V ’ 

“On t’other side of the house—what they’ve left on it.” 

“ Now, then, while they’re busy over the blaze, put your 
tackle on, hitch your horse, and take the back track to my 
clearing; it’s hut a short mile and a quarter, and you’ll be 
there in no time. I’ll follow in a little while, and we’ll arrange 
the matter.” 

“Well, now, lawyer, but I can’t—my horse, as you see, 
having over eat himself, is struck with the founders and can’t 
budge. 1 put him in ’Squire Dickens’ stable, ’long with his 
animals, and seeing that he hadn’t had much the day before, I 
emptied the corn from their troughs into his, and jest see what’s 
come of it. I hadn’t ought to done so, to be sure.” 

“ That’s bad, but that must not stop you. Your life, Bunce, 
is in danger, and I have too much regard for you to let you risk 
it by longer stay here. Take my nag, there—the second one 
from the tree, and put him in the gears in place of your own. 
He’s as gentle as a spaniel, and goes like a deer. You know 
the back track to my house, and I’ll come after you, and bring 
your creature along. I ’spose lie’s not so stiff but he can bring 
me.” 

“He can do that, lawyer, I guess, without difficulty. I’ll 
move as you say, and be off pretty slick. Five hundred dollars 
damage, lawyer — eh !” 

“ No matter, till I see you. Put your nag in gears quickly 
—you have little time to spare !” 

The pedler proceeded to the work, and was in a little while 
ready for a start. But lie lingered at the porch. 

“ I say, lawyer, it’s a hard bout they’ve given me this time. 
I did fear they would be rash and obstropulous, but didn’t think 
they’d gone so far. Indeed, its clear, if it hadn’t been that the 
cretur failed me, I should not have trusted myself in the place, 
after what I was told.” 

“ Bunce, you have been rather sly in your dealings, and they 


90 


GUY RIVERS. 


have a go t d deal to complain of. Now, though I said nothing 
about it, that coat you sold me for a black grew red with a 
week’s wear, and threadbare in a month.” 

“Now, don’t talk, lawyer, seeing you ha’n’t paid me for it 
yet; but that’s neither here nor there. If I did, as you say, 
sell my goods for something more than tlieir vally, I hadn’t 
ought to had such a punishment as this.” 

The wild song of the rioters rang in his ears, followed by a 
proposition, seemingly made with the utmost gravity, to change 
the plan of operations, and instead of giving him the ride upon 
the rail, cap the blazing goods of his cart with the proper per¬ 
son of tlie proprietor. The pedler lingered to hear no further ; 
and the quick ear of the lawyer, as he returned into the hall, 
distinguished the rumbling motion of his cart hurrying down 
the road. But he had scarcely reseated himself and resumed 
his glass, before Bunco also reappeared. 

“ Why, man, I thought you were off. You burn daylight; 
though they do say, those whom water won’t drown, rope must 
hang.” 

“ There is some risk, lawyer, to be sure; but when I recol¬ 
lected this box, which you see is a fine one, though they have 
disfigured it, I thought I should have time enough to take it 
with me, and anything that might be lying about;” looking 
around the apartment as he spoke, and gathering up a few frag¬ 
ments which had escaped the general notice. 

“ Begone, fool!” exclaimed the lawyer, impatiently. “ They 
are upon you — they come — fly for your life, you dog — I hear 
their voices.” 

“ I’m off’, lawyer”—and looking once behind him as he hur¬ 
ried off, the pedler passed from the rear of the building as those 
who sought him re-entered in front. 

“ The blood’s in him—the Yankee will be Yankee still,” was 
the muttered speech of the lawyer, as he prepared fo encounter 
the ret rning rioters. 


THE YANKEE OUTWITS THE LAWYER. 


11 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE YANKEE OUTWITS THE LAWYER. 

It was at tliis moment that Forrester entered the tavern-hall, 
curious to know the result of the trial, from which his attend¬ 
ance upon Ralph had unavoidably detained him. The actors 
of the drama were in better humor than before, and uproarious 
mirth had succeeded to ferocity. They were all in the very ex¬ 
cess of self-glorification; for, though somewhat disappointed of 
their design, and defrauded of the catastrophe, they had never¬ 
theless done much, according to their own judgment, and 
enough, perhaps, in that of the reader, for the purposes of jus¬ 
tice. The work of mischief had been fully consummated; and 
though, to their notion, still somewhat incomplete from the 
escape of the pedler himself, they were in great part satisfied 
— some few among them, indeed — and among these our quon¬ 
dam friend Forrester may be included — were not sorry that 
Bunce had escaped the application of the personal tests which 
had been contemplated for his benefit; for, however willing, it 
was somewhat doubtful whether they could have been alto¬ 
gether able to save him from the hands of those having a less 
scrupulous regard to humanity. 

The sudden appearance of Forrester revived the spirit of the 
transaction, now beginning somewhat to decline, as several 
voices undertook to give him an account of its progress. The 
lawyer was in his happiest mood, as things, so far. had all 
turned out as he expected. His voice was loudest, and his ora¬ 
tory more decidedly effective than ever. The prospect before 
him was also of so seductive a character, that he yielded more 
than was his wont to the influences of the bottle-god; who stood 
before him in the shape of the little negro, who served forth 
the whiskey, in compliance with the popular appetite, from a 


92 


GUY RIVERS. 


little iron-hooped keg, perched upon a shelf conveniently in the 
corner. 

“ Here Cuffee, you thrice-blackened baby of Beelzebub !— 
why stand you there, arms akimbo, and showing your ivories, 
when you see we have no whiskey! Bring in the jug, you 
imp of darkness—touch us the Monongahela, and a fresh tum¬ 
bler for Mr. Forrester—and, look you, one too for Col. Blundell, 
seeing he’s demolished the other. Quick, you terrapin !” 

Cuffee recovered himself in an instant. His hands fell to his 
sides—his mouth closed intuitively ; and the whites of his eyes 
changing their fixed direction, marshalled his way with a fresh 
jug, containing two or more quarts, to the rapacious lawyer. 

“ Ah, you blackguard, that will do — now, Mr. Forrester — 
now, Col. Blundell — don’t be slow — no backing out, boys—hey, 
for a long drink to the stock in trade of our friend the pedler.” 

So spoke Pippin; a wild huzza attested the good humor 
■which the proposition excited. Potation rapidly followed pota¬ 
tion, and the jug again demanded replenishing. The company 
was well drilled in this species of exercise; and each individual 
claiming caste in such circle, must be well prepared, like the 
kniglit-cliallenger of old tourney, to defy all comers. In the 
cases of Pippin and Blundell, successive draughts, after the at¬ 
tainment of a certain degree of mental and animal stolidity, 
seemed rather to fortify than to weaken their defences, and to 
fit them more perfectly for a due prolongation of the warfare. 
The appetite, too, like most appetites, growing from what it fed 
on, ventured few idle expostulations; glass after glass, in rapid 
succession, fully attested the claim of these two champions to 
the renown which such exercises in that section of the world 
had won for them respectively. The subject of conversation, 
which, in all this time, accompanied their other indulgences, 
was, very naturally, that of the pedler and his punishment. On 
this topic, however, a professional not less than personal policy 
sealed the lips of our lawyer except on those points which ad¬ 
mitted of a general remark, without application or even mean¬ 
ing. Though drunk, his policy was that of the courts; and the 
practice of the sessions had served him well, in his own person, 
to give the lie to the “in vino verkas” of the proverb 

Things were in this condition when the company found in- 


THE YANKEE OUTWITS THE LAWYER. 


93 


crease in the person of the landlord, who now made his appear¬ 
ance; and, as we intend that he shall he no unimportant auxili- 
ar in the action of our story, it may be prudent for a few mo¬ 
ments to dwell upon the details of his outward man, and 
severally to describe his features. We have him before us in that 
large, dark, and somewhat heavy person, who sidles awkwardly 
into the apartment, as if only conscious in part of the true uses 
of his legs and arms. He leans at this moment over the shoul¬ 
ders of one of the company, and, while whispering in his ears, 
at the same time, with an upward glance, surveys the whole. 
His lowering eyes, almost shut in and partially concealed by 
his scowling and bushy eyebrows, are of a quick gray, stern, 
and penetrating in their general expression, yet, when narrow¬ 
ly observed, putting on an air of vacancy, if not stupidity, that 
furnishes a perfect blind to the lurking meaning within. His 
nose is large, yet not disproportionately so ; his head well made, 
though a phrenologist might object to a strong animal prepon¬ 
derance in the rear; his mouth bold and finely curved, is rigid 
however in its compression, and the lips, at times almost woven 
together, are largely indicative of ferocity; they are pale in 
color, and dingily so, yet his flushed cheek and brow bear stri¬ 
king evidence of a something too frequent revel; his hair, thin 
and scattered, is of a dark brown complexion and sprinkled 
with gray; his neck is so very short that a single black hand¬ 
kerchief, wrapped loosely about it, removes all seeming dis¬ 
tinction between itself and the adjoining shoulders — the latter 
being round and uprising, forming a socket, into which the for¬ 
mer appears to fall as into a designated place. As if more ef¬ 
fectually to complete the unfavorable impression of such an 
outline, an ugly scar, partly across the cheek, and slightly im¬ 
pairing the integrity of the left nostril, gives to his whole look 
a sinister expression, calculated to defeat entirely any neutral¬ 
izing or less objectionable feature. His form—to conclude the 
picture—is constructed with singular power; and though not 
symmetrical, is far from ungainly. When impelled by some 
stirring motive, his carriage is easy, without seeming effort, 
and his huge frame throws aside the sluggishness which at other 
times invests it, putting on a habit of animated exercise, which 
changes the entire appearance of the man. 


04 


GUY RIVERS. 


Sncli was Walter, or, as he was there more familiarly termed, 
Wat Munro. He took his seat with the company, with the ease 
of one who neither doubted nor deliberated upon the footing 
which he claimed among them. He was not merely the publi¬ 
can of his profession, but better fitted indeed for perhaps any 
other avocation, as may possibly be discovered in the progress 
of our narrative. To his wife, a good quiet sort of body, who, 
as Forrester phrased it, did not dare to say the soul was her 
own, he deputed the whole domestic management of the tavern; 
while he would be gone, nobody could say where or why, for 
weeks and more at a time, away from bar and hostel, in differ¬ 
ent portions of the country. None ventured to inquire into a 
matter that was still sufficiently mysterious to arouse curiosity; 
people living with and about him generally entertaining a de¬ 
gree of respect, amounting almost to vulgar awe, for his person 
and presence, which prevented much inquiry into his doings. 
Some few, however, more bold than the rest, spoke in terms of 
suspicion; but the number of this class was inconsiderable, and 
they themselves felt that the risk which they incurred was not 
so unimportant as to permit of their going much out of the way 
to trace the doubtful features in his life. 

As we have already stated, he took his place along with his 
guests; the bottles and glasses were replenished, the story of 
the pedler again told, and each individual once more busied in 
describing his own exploits. The lawyer, immersed in visions 
of grog and glory, rhapsodized perpetually and clapped his 
hands. Blundell, drunkenly happy, at every discharge of the 
current humor, made an abortive attempt to chuckle, the inef¬ 
fectual halloo gurgling away in the abysses of his mighty 
throat; until, at length, his head settled down supinely upon 
his breast, his eyes were closed, and the hour of his victory had 
gone by; though, even then, his huge jaws opening at intervals 
for the outward passage of something which by courtesy might 
be considered a laugh, attested the still anxious struggles of the 
inward spirit, battling with the weaknesses of the flesh. 

The example of a leader like Blundell had a most pernicious 
effect upon the uprightness of the greater part of the company. 
Having the sanction of authority, several others, the minor 
spirits it is true, settled down under their chairs without a 


THE YANKEE OUTWITS THE LAWYER 


95 


struggle. The survivors made some lugubrious efforts at a tri¬ 
umph over their less stubborn companions, but the laborious 
and husky laugh was but a poor apology for the proper per¬ 
formance of this feat. Munro, who to his other qualities added 
those of a sturdy bon-vivant, together with Forrester, and a few 
who still girt in the lawyer as the prince of the small jest, dis¬ 
charged their witticisms upon the staggering condition of affairs ; 
not forgetting in their assaults the disputatiqus civilian himself. 
That worthy, we regret to add, though still unwilling to yield, 
and still striving to retort, had nevertheless suffered considerable 
loss of equilibrium. His speeches were more than ever confused, 
and it was remarked that his eyes danced about hazily, with a 
most ineffectual expression. He looked about, however, with 
a stupid gaze of self-satisfaction; hut his laugh and language, 
forming a strange and most unseemly coalition, degenerated at 
last into a dolorous sniffle, indicating the rapid departure of the 
few mental and animal holdfasts which had lingered with him 
so long. While thus reduced, his few surviving senses were at 
once called into acute activity by the appearance of a sooty 
little negro, who thrust into his hands a misshapen fold of dirty 
paper, which a near examination made out to take the form of 
a letter. 

“ Why, what the d—1, d—d sort of fist is this you’ve given 
me, you bird of blackness! where got you this vile scrawl? — 
faugh! you’ve had it in your jaws, you raven, have you not ?” 

The terrified urchin retreated a few paces while answering 
the inquiry. 

“No, mass lawyer—de pedler—da him gib um to me so. 
I bring um straight as he gib um.” 

“The pedler! why, where is he? — what the devil can he 
have to write about ?” was the universal exclamation. 

“ The pedler!” said the lawyer, and his sobriety grew 
strengthened at the thought of business; he called to the 
waiter and whispered in his ears— 

“Hark ye, cuffee; go bring out the pedler’s horse, saddle 
him with my saddle which lies in the gallery, bring him to the 
tree, and, look ye, make no noise about it, you scoundrel, as 
you value your ears.” 

Cuffee was gone on his mission—and the whole assembly 


96 


GUY tl VERS. 


aroused by the name of the pedler and the mysterious influence 
of the communication upon the lawyer, gathered, with inquiries 
of impatience, around him. Finding him slow, they clamored 
for the contents of the epistle, and the route of the writer—nei¬ 
ther of which did he seem desirous to communicate. His eva¬ 
sions and unwillingness were all in vain, and he was at length 
compelled to undertake the perusal of the scrawl; a task he 
would most gladly have avoided in their presence. He was in 
doubt and fear. What could the pedler have to communicate, 
on paper, which might not have been left over for their inter¬ 
view ? His mind was troubled, and, pushing the crowd away 
from immediately about him, he tore open the envelope and 
began the perusal — proceeding with a measured gait, the re¬ 
sult as well of the “ damned cramp hand” as of the still foggy 
intellect and unsettled vision of the reader. But as the charac¬ 
ters and their signification became more clear and obvious to 
his gaze, his features grew more and more sobered and intelli¬ 
gent—a blankness overspread his face—his hands trembled, 
and finally, his apprehensions, whatever they might have been, 
having seemingly undergone full confirmation, he crumpled the 
villanous scrawl in his hands, and dashing it to the floor in a rage, 
roared out in quick succession volley after volley of invective 
and denunciation upon the thrice-blasted head of the pedler. 
The provocation must have been great, no doubt, to impart such 
animation at such a time to the man of law; and the curiosity 
of one of the revellers getting the better of his scruples in such 
matters—if, indeed, scruples of any kind abode in such a sec¬ 
tion—prompting him to seize upon the epistle thus pregnant 
with mortal matter, in this way the whole secret became public 
property. As, therefore, we shall violate no confidence, and 
shock no decorum, we proceed to read it aloud for the benefit 
of all: — 

“ Dear Lawyer : I guess I am pretty safe now from the 
regilators , and, saving my trouble of mind, well enough, and 
nothing to complain about. Your animal goes as slick as 
grease, and carried me in no time out of reach of rifle-shot— 
so you see it’s only right to thank God, and you, lawyer 
for if you hadn’t lent me the nag, I guess it would have been 


THE YANKEE OUTWITS THE LAWYER. 


97 


a sore chance for me in the hands of them savages and beasts 
of prey. 

“ I’ve been thinking, lawyer, as I driv along, about what you 
*aid to me, and I guess it’s no more than right and reasonable 
1 should take the law on ’em ; and so I put the case in your 
bands, to make the most on it; and seeing that the damages, as 
you say, may be over five hundred dollars, why, I don’t see but 
the money is jest as good in my hands as theirs, for so it ought 
to be. The bill of particulars I will send you by post. In the 
neanwhile, you may say, having something to go upon, that the 
whole comes to five hundred and fifty dollars or thereabouts, 
for, with a little calculation and tigering, I guess it won’t be 
hard to bring it up to that. This don’t count the vally of the 
cart, for, as I made it myself, it didn’t cost me much; but, if 
you put it in the bill, which I guess you ought to, put it down 
for twenty dollars more — seeing that, if I can’t trade for one 
somehow, I shall have to give something like that for an¬ 
other.” 

“And now, lawyer, tnere’s one thing—I don’t like to be in 
the reach of them ’ere r.egilators, and guess ’twouldn’t be alto¬ 
gether the wisest to stop short of fifteen miles to-night: so, 
therefore, you see, it won’t be in my way, no how, to let you 
have your nag, which is a main fine one, and goes slick as a 
whistle—pretty much as if he and the wagon was made for one 
another; but this, I guess, will be no difference to you, seeing 
that you can pay yourself his vally out of the damages. I’m 
willing to allow you one hundred dollars for him, though he 
a’n’t worth so much, no how; and the balance of the money you 
can send to me, or my brother, in the town of Meriden, in the 
state of Connecticut. So no more, dear lawyer, at this writing, 
from 

“ Your very humble sarvant 

“ to command, &c.” 

The dismay of the attorney was only exceeded by the cha¬ 
grin with which he perceived his exposure, and anticipated the 
odium in consequence. He leaped about the hall, among the 
company, in a restless paroxysm—now denouncing the pedler, 
now deprecating their dissatisfaction at finding out the double 

5 


98 


GUY RIVERS. 


game which he had been playing. The trick of the runaway 
almost gave him a degree of favor in their eyes, which did not 
find much diminution when Pippin, rushing forth from the 
apartment, encountered a new trial in the horse left him by the 
pedler; the miserable beast being completely ruined, unable to 
move a step, and more dead than alive. 


NEW FRIENDS IN STRANGE PLACES. 


99 


CHAPTER VIII. 

r EW FRIENDS IN STRANGE PLACES. 

Ralph opened his eyes at a moderately late hour on the en* 
suing morning, and found Forrester in close attendance. He 
felt himself somewhat sore from his bruises in falling, hut the 
wound gave him little concern. Indeed, he was scarcely con¬ 
scious of it. He had slept well, and was not unwilling to enter 
into the explanatory conversation which the woodman began. 
From him he learned the manner and situation in which he had 
been found, and was furnished with a partial history of his pres¬ 
ent whereabouts. In return, he gave a particular account of 
the assault made upon him in the wood, and of his escape; all 
of which, already known to the reader, will call for no additional 
details. In reply to the unscrupulous inquiry of Forrester, the 
youth, with as little hesitation, declared himself to he a native 
of the neighboring state of South Carolina, born in one of its 
middle districts, and now on his way to Tennessee. He con¬ 
cluded with giving his name. 

“ Colleton, Colleton,” repeated the other, as if reviving some 
recollection of old time — “ why, ’squire, I once knew a whole 
family of that name in Carolina. I’m from Carolina myself, you 
must know. There was an old codger—a fine, hearty buck— 
old Ralph Colleton — Colonel Ralph, as they used to call him. 
He did have a power of money, and a smart chance of lands 
and field-niggers; but they did say he was going behindhand, 
for he didn’t know how to keep what he had. He was always 
buying, and living large; but that can’t last for ever. I saw 
him first at a muster. I was then just eighteen, and went out 
with the rest, for the first time. Maybe, ’squire, I didn’t take 
the rag off the bush that day. I belonged to Captain Williams’s 

LOF C. 


100 


GUY RIVER3. 


troop, called the ‘Bush-Whackers/ We were all fine-looking 
fellows, though I say it myself. I was no chicken, I tell you. 
From that day, Mark Forrester wrote himself down ‘ 7 nan? And 
well he might, ’squire, and no small one neither. Six feet in 
stocking-foot, sound in wind and limb — could outrun, outjump, 
outwrestle, outfight, and outdo anyhow, any lad of my inches 
in the whole district. There was Tom Foster, that for five long 
years counted himself cock of the walk, and crowed like a 
chicken whenever he came out upon the ground. You never 
saw Tom, I reckon, for he went oft' to Mississippi after I sowed 
him up. He couldn’t stand it any longer, since it was no use, 
I licked him in sich short order : he wasn’t a mouthful. After 
that, the whole ground was mine; nobody could stand before 
me, ’squire ; though now the case may be different, for Sumter’s 
a destrict, ’squire, that a’n’t slow at raising game chickens.” 

At the close of this rambling harangue, Mark Forrester, as 
we may now be permitted to call him, looked down upon his 
own person with no small share of complacency. He was still, 
doubtless, all the man he boasted himself to have been; his 
person, as we have already briefly described it, offering, as well 
from its bulk and well-distributed muscle as from its perfect 
symmetry, a fine model for the statuary. After the indulgence 
of a few moments in this harmless egotism, he returned to the 
point, as if but now recollected, from which he set out. 

“Well, then, Master Colleton, as I was saying, ’twas at this 
same muster that I first saw the ’squire. He was a monstrous 
clever old buck now, I tell you. Why, he thought no more of 
money than if it growed in his plantation—he almost throwed 
it away for the people to scramble after. That very day, when 
the muster was over, he called all the boys up to Eben Garratt’s 
tavern, and told old Eben to set the right stuff afloat, and put 
the whole score down to him. Maybe old Eben didn’t take 
him at his word. Eben was a cunning chap, quite Yankee-like, 
and would skin his shadow for a saddle-back, I reckon, if lie 
could catch it. I tell you what, when the crop went to town, 
the old ’squire must have had a mighty smart chance to pay; 
for, whatever people might say of old Eben, he knew how to 
calculate from your pocket into his with monstrous sartainty, 
Well, as T was saying, ’squire, I shouldn’t be afraid to go you a 


NEW FRIENDS IN STRANGE PLACES. 101 

little bet that old Ralph Colleton is some kin of your’n. You’re 
both of the same stock, I reckon.” 

“ You are right in your conjecture,” replied the youth; “ the 
person of whom you speak was indeed a near relative of mine 
—he was ho other than my father.” 

“There, now—I could have said as much, for you look for 
all the world as if you had come out of his own mouth. There 
is a trick of the eye which I never saw in any but you two; 
and even if you had not told me your name, I should have 
made pretty much the same calculation about you. The old 
’squire, if I rightly recollect, was something stiff in his way, 
and some people did say he was proud, and carried himself 
rather high; but, for my part, I never saw any difference ’twixt 
him and most of our Carolina gentlemen, who, you know, gen¬ 
erally walk pretty high in the collar, and have no two ways 
about them. For that matter, however, I couldn’t well judge 
then ; I may have been something too young to say, for certain, 
what was what, at that time of my life.” 

“You are not even now so far advanced in years, Mr. For¬ 
rester, that you speak of your youth as of a season so very re¬ 
mote. What, I pray, may be your age? We may ask, with¬ 
out offence, such a question of men: the case where the other 
sex is concerned is, you are aware, something different.” 

The youth seemed studiously desirous of changing the direc¬ 
tion of the dialogue. 

“ Man or woman, I see, for my part, no harm in the question. 
But do call me Forrester, or Mark Forrester, whichever pleases 
you best, and not mister, as you just now called me. I go by 
no other name. Mister is a great word, and moves people quite 
too far off from one another. I never have any concern with a 
man that I have to mister and sir. I call them ’squire because 
that’s a title the law gives them; and when I speak to you, I 
say ’squire, or Master Colleton. You may be a ’squire your¬ 
self, but whether you are or are not, it makes no difference, for 
you get the name from your father, who is. Then, ag’in, I call 
you master—because, you see, you are but a youth, and have 
a long run to overtake my years, few as you may think them. 
Besides, master is a friendly word, and comes easy to the tongue. 
I never, for my part, could see the sense in mister, except when 


GUY RIYERS. 


l02 

people go out to light, when it’s necessary to do everythin^ , 
little the politest ; .and, then 1 , it smells of long shot and eol 
business, ’squire. ’Tisn’t, to my mind, a good word amon£ 
friends.” 

The youth smiled slightly at the distinction drawn with sue! 
nicety by his companion, between words which he had liitli 
erto been taught to conceive synonymous, or nearly so; and 
the reasons, such as they were, by which the woodman sustained 
his free use of the one to the utter rejection of the other. He 
did not think it important, however, to make up an issue on the 
point, though dissenting from the logic of his companion; and 
contented himself simply with a repetition of the question in 
which it had originated. 

“ Why, I take shame to answer you rightly, ’squire, seeing 1 
am no wiser and no better than I am; but the whole secret of 
the matter lies in the handle of this little hatchet, and this I 
made out of a live-oak sapling some sixteen years ago — Its 
much less worn than I, yet I am twice its age, I reckon.” 

“ You are now then about thirty-two ?” 

“ Ay, just thirty-two. It don’t take much calculating to 
make out that. My own schooling, though little enough for a 
large man, is more than enough to keep me from wanting help 
at such easy arithmetic.” 

With the exception of an occasional and desultory remark 
or two, the conversation had reached a close. The gravity 
—the almost haughty melancholy which, at intervals, ap¬ 
peared the prevailing characteristic of the manners and coun¬ 
tenance of the youth, served greatly to discourage even the 
blunt freedom of Mark Forrester, who seemed piqued at length 
by the unsatisfactory issue of all his endeavors to enlist the 
familiarity and confidence of his companion. This Ralph 
soon discovered. He had good sense and feeling enough to 
perceive the necessity of some alteration in his habit, if lie 
desired a better understanding with one whose attendance, at 
the present time, was not only unavoidable but indispensable — 
one who might be of use, and who was not only willing and 
well-intentioned, but to all appearance honest and harmless, and 
to whom he was already so largely indebted. With an effort, 
therefore, not so much of mind as of mood, he brake the ice 


NEW FRIENDS IN STRANGE PLACES. 


108 


which his own indifference had suffered to close, and by giving 
a legitimate excuse for the garrulity of his companion, unlocked 
once more the treasurehouse of his good-humor and volubility. 

From the dialogue thus recommenced, we are enabled to take 
a farther glance into the history of Forrester’s early life. He 
was, as he phrased it, from “ old So. Ca.” pronouncing the name 
of the state in the abridged form of its written contraction. In 
one of the lower districts he still held, in fee, a small but ineffi¬ 
cient patrimony; the profits of which were put to the use of a 
young sister. Times, however, had grown hard, and with the 
impatience and restlessness so peculiar to nearly all classes of 
the people of that state, Mark set out in pursuit of his fortune 
among strangers. H i loved from his childhood all hardy enter¬ 
prises ; all employments calculated to keep his spirit from slum¬ 
bering in irksome quiet m his breast. He had no relish for the 
labors of the plough, and looked upon the occupation of his 
forefathers as by no means fitted for the spirit which, with little 
besides, they had left him. The warmth, excitability, and rest¬ 
lessness which were his prevailing features of temper, could not 
bear the slow process of tilling, and cultivating the earth — 
watching the growth and generations of pigs and potatoes, and 
listening to that favorite music with the staid and regular far¬ 
mer, the shooting of the corn in the still nights, as it swells 
with a respiring movement, distending the contracted sheaves 
which enclose it. In addition to this antipathy to the pursuits 
of his ancestors, Mark had a decided desire, a restless ambition, 
prompting him to see, and seek, and mingle with the world. He 
was fond, as our readers may have observed already, of his own 
eloquence, and having worn out the patience and forfeited the 
attention of all auditors at home, he was compelled, in order to 
the due appreciation of his faculties, to seek for others less ex¬ 
perienced abroad. Like wiser and greater men, he, too, had 
been won away, by the desire of rule and reference, from the 
humble quiet of his native fireside; and if, in after life, he did 
not bitterly repent of the folly, it was because of that light¬ 
hearted and sanguine temperament which never deserted him 
quite, and supported him in all events and through every vicis¬ 
situde. He had wandered much after leaving his parental 
home, and was now engaged in an occupation and pursuit 


104 


GUY HI VERS. 


which >ur future pages must develop. Having narrated, lr. 
his desultory way to his companion, the facts which we have 
condensed, he conceived himself entitled to some share of that 
confidence of which he had himself exhibited so fair an exam¬ 
ple ; and the cross-examination which followed did not vary 
very materially from that to which most wayfarers in this 
region are subjected, and of which, on more than one ^ccasiom 
they have been heard so vociferously to complain. 

“Well, Master Ralph—unless my eyes greatly miscalculate, 
you cannot be more than nineteen or twenty at the most; and 
if one may be so bold, what is it that brings one of your youth 
and connections abroad into this wilderness, among wild men 
and wild beasts, and we gold-hunters, 'whom men do say are very 
little, if any, better than them ?” 

“ Why, as respects your first conjecture, Forrester,” returned 
the youth, “ you are by no means out of the way. I am not 
much over twenty, and am free to confess, do not care to be 
held much older. Touching your further inquiry, not to seem 
churlish, but rather to speak frankly and in a like spirit with 
yourself, I am not desirous to repeat to others the story that 
has been, perhaps, but learned in part by myself. I do not 
exactly believe that it would promote my plans to submit my 
affairs to the examination of other people; nor do I think that 
any person whomsoever would be very much benefited by the 
knowledge. You seem to have forgotten, however, that I have 
already said that I am journeying to Tennessee.” 

“ Left Carolina for good and all, heh V’ 

“Yes—perhaps for ever. But we will not talk of it.” 

“ Well, you’re in a wild world now, ’squire.” 

“ This is no strange region to me, though I have lost my way 
in it. I have passed a season in the county of Gwinnett and 
the neighborhood, with my uncle’s family, when something 
younger, and have passed, twice, journeying between Carolina 
and Tennessee, at no great distance from this very spot. But 
your service to me, and your Carolina birth, deserves that I 
should be more free in my disclosures; and to account for the 
sullenness of my temper, which you may regard as something 
inconsistent with our relationship, let me say, that whatever my 
prospects might have been, and whatever my history may be, I 


NEW FRIENDS IN STRANGE PLACES. 


105 


am at this moment altogether indifferent as to the course which 
I shall pursue. It matters not very greatly to me whether 1 
take up my abode among the neighboring Cherokees, or, farther 
on, along with them, pursue my fortunes upon the shores of the 
Red river or the Missouri. I have become, during the last 
few days of my life, rather reckless of human circumstance, 
and, perhaps, more criminally indifferent to the necessities 
of my nature, and my responsibilities to society and myself, 
than might well beseem one so youthful, and, as you say, 
with prospects like those which you conjecture, and not erro¬ 
neously, to have been mine. All I can say is, that, when I lost 
my way last evening, my first feeling was one of a melancholy 
satisfaction; for it seemed to me that destiny itself had deter¬ 
mined to contribute towards my aim and desire, and to forward 
me freely in the erratic progress, which, in a gloomy mood, I 
had most desperately and, perhaps, childishly undertaken. ,, 

There was a stern melancholy in the deep and low utteranc 
—the close compression of lip—the steady, calm eye of the 
youth, that somewhat tended to confirm the almost savage sen¬ 
timent of despairing indifference to life, which his sentiments 
conveyed; and had the effect of eliciting a larger degree of 
respectful consideration from the somewhat uncouth but really 
well-meaning and kind companion who stood beside him. For¬ 
rester had good sense enough to perceive that Ralph had been 
gently nurtured and deferentially treated—that his pride or 
vanity, or perhaps some nobler emotion, had suffered slight o; 
rebuke; and that it was more than probable this emotion wouia 
before long, give place to others, if not of a more manly anc! 
spirited, at least of a more subdued and reasonable character. 
Accordingly, without appearing to attach any importance to, or 
even to perceive the melancholy defiance contained in the 
speech of the young man, lie confined himself entirely to a pass¬ 
ing comment upon the facility with which, having his eyes open, 
and the bright sunshine and green trees for his guides, he had 
suffered himself to lose his way — an incident excessively ludi¬ 
crous in the contemplation of one, who, in his own words, 
could take the tree with the ’possum, the scent with the hound, 
the swamp with the deer, and be in at the death with all of 
them—for whom the woods had no labyrinth sad the nighi no 

5 * 


106 


GUY RIVERS. 


mystery. He laughed heartily at the simplicity of the youth, 
and entered into many details, not so tedious as long, of the 
various hairbreadth escapes, narrow chances, and curious enter¬ 
prises of his own initiation into the secrets of wood-craft, and 
to the trials and perils of which, in his own probation, his ex¬ 
perience had necessarily subjected him. At length he con¬ 
cluded his narrative by seizing upon one portion of Ralph’s 
language with an adroitness and ingenuity that might have done- 
credit to an older diplomatist; and went on to invite the latter 
to quarter upon himself for a few weeks at least. 

“ And now Master Colleton, as you are rambling, as you say, 
indifferent quite as to what quarter you turn the head of your 
creature — suppose now you take up lodgings with me. I 
have, besides this room, which I only keep for my use of a 
Saturday and Sunday when I come to the village—a snug 
place a few miles off, and there’s room enough, and provisions 
enough, if you’ll only stop a while and take what’s going. 
Plenty of hog and hominy at all times, and we don’t want for 
other and better things, if we please. Come, stay with me for 
a month, or more, if you choose, and when you think to go, I 
can put you on your road at an hour’s warning. In the mean¬ 
time, I can show you all that’s to be seen. I can show you 
where the gold grows, and may be had for the gathering. 
We’ve snug quarters for the woods, plenty of venison; and, 
as you must be a good shot coming from Carolina, you may 
bring down at day-dawn of a morning a sluggish wild turkey, so 
fat that he will split open the moment he strikes the ground. 
Don’t fight shy, now, ’squire, and we’ll have sport just so long 
as you choose to stay with us.” 

The free and hearty manner of the woodman, who, as he 
concluded his invitation, grasped the hand of the youth warmly 
in his own, spoke quite as earnestly as his language; and Ralph, 
in part, fell readily into a proposal which promised something 
in the way of diversion. He gave Forrester to understand 
“.hat he would probably divide his time for a few days between 
the tavern and his lodge, which he proposed to visit whenevei 
he felt himself perfectly able to manage his steed. He signified 
his acknowledgment of the kindness of his companion with 
something less of hauteu than had hitherto characterized him ; 


NEW FRIENDS IN STRANGE PLACES. 


107 


and, remembering that, on the subject of the assault male upon 
him, Forrester had said little, and that too wandering to be 
considered, he again brought the matter up to his consideration, 
and endeavored to find a clue to the persons of the outlaws, 
whom he endeavored to describe. 

On this point, however, he procured but little satisfaction. 
The description which he gave of the individual assailant whom 
alone he had been enabled to distinguish, though still evidently 
under certain disguises, was not sufficient to permit of Forrester’s 
identification. The woodman was at a loss, though evidently 
satisfied that the parties were not unknown to him in some 
other character. As for the Pony Club, he gave its history, 
confirming that already related by the outlaw himself; and 
while avowing his own personal fearlessness on the subject, did 
not withhold his opinion that the members were not to be trifled 
with: — 

“And, a word in your ear, ’squire — one half of the people 
you meet with in this quarter know a leetle more of this same 
Pony Club than is altogether becoming in honest men. So 
mind that you look about you, right and left, with a sharp eye, 
and be ready to let drive with a quick hand. Keep your tongue 
still, at the same time that you keep your eyes open, for there’s 
no knowing what devil’s a listening when a poor weak sinner 
talks. The danger’s not in the open daylight, but in the dark. 
There’s none of them that will be apt to square off agin you 
while you’re here ; for they know that, though we’ve got a 
mighty mixed nest, there’s some honest birds hi it. There’s a 
few of us here, always ready to see that a man has fair play, and 
that’s a sort of game that a scamp never likes to take a hand 
in. There’s quite enough of us, when a scalp’s in danger, who 
can fling a knife and use a trigger with the best, and who Avon t 
wait to be asked twice to a supper of cold steel. Only you 
keep cool, and wide aAvake, and you’ll have friends enough al¬ 
ways within a single whoop. But, good night now. I must go 
and look after our horses. I’ll see you soon—I reckon a leetle 
sooner than you care to see me.” 

Ralph Colleton good humoredly assured him that could not 
be the case, and with friendly gripe of the hand, they parted. 


108 


GUY RIVERS 


CHAPTER IX. 

MORE OF THE DRAMATIS PERSON.®. 

In a few days, so much for the proper nursing of Mark For¬ 
rester, and of the soi-disanl medico of the village, Ralph Colle¬ 
ton was able to make his appearance below, and take his place 
among the habitues of the hotel. His wound, slight at first, 
was fortunate in simple treatment and in his own excellent con¬ 
stitution. His bruises gave him infinitely more concern, and 
brought him more frequent remembrances of the adventure in 
which they were acquired. A stout frame and an eager spirit, 
impatient of restraint, soon enabled our young traveller to con¬ 
quer much of the pain and inconvenience which his hurts gave 
him, proving how much the good condition of the physical man 
depends upon the will. He lifted himself about in five days as 
erectly as if nothing had occurred, and was just as ready for 
supper, as if he had never once known the loss of appetite. 
Still he was tolerably prudent and did not task nature too un¬ 
reasonably. His exercises were duly moderated, so as not to 
irritate anew his injuries. Forrester was a rigid disciplinarian, 
and it was only on the fifth day after his arrival, and after re¬ 
peated entreaties of his patient, in all of which he showed him¬ 
self sufficiently impatient , that the honest woodman permitted 
him to descend to the dinner-table of the inn, in compliance with 
the clamorous warning of the huge bell which stood at the en¬ 
trance. 

The company at the dinner-table was somewhat less numer¬ 
ous than that assembled in the great hall at the trial of the 
pedler. Many of the persons then present were not residents, 
but visiters in the village from the neighboring country. They 
had congregated there, as was usually the case, on each Satur- 


MORE OF THE DRAMATIS PERSONS. 


109 


day of the week, with the view not less to the procuring of 
their necessaries, than the enjoyment of good company. Hav¬ 
ing atteu led in the first place to the ostensible objects of their 
visit, the village tavern, in the usual phrase, “ brought them 
upand in social, yet wild carousal, they commonly spent the 
residue of the day. It was in this way that they met their ac¬ 
quaintance—found society, and obtained the news; objects of 
primary importance, at all times, with a people whose insulated 
positions, removed from the busy mart and the stirring crowd, 
left them no alternative but to do this or rust altogether. The 
regular lodgers of the tavern were not numerous therefore, and 
consisted in the main of those laborers in the diggings who had 
not yet acquired the means of establishing households of their 
own. 

There was little form or ceremony in the proceedings of the 
repast. Colleton was introduced by a few words from the 
landlord to the landlady, Mrs. Dorothy Munro, and to a young 
girl, her niece, who sat beside her. It does not need that we 
say much in regard to the former—she interferes with no heart 
in our story; but Lucy, the niece, may not be overlooked so 
casually. She has not only attractions in herself which claim 
our notice, but occupies no minor interest in the story we pro¬ 
pose to narrate. Her figure was finely formed, slight and deli¬ 
cate, but neither diminutive nor feeble—of fair proportion 
symmetry, aud an ease and grace of carriage and manner be 
longing to a far more refined social organization than that ii 
which we find her. But this is easily accounted for; and the 
progress of our tale will save us the trouble of dwelling farthei 
upon it now. Her skin, though slightly tinged by the sun, was 
beautifully smooth and fair. Her features might not be hell 
regular; perhaps not exactly such as in a critical examination 
we should call or consider handsome; but they were attractive 
nevertheless, strongly marked, and well defined. Her eyes 
were darkly blue; not languishingly so, but on the contrary 
rather lively and intelligent in their accustomed expression. 
Her mouth, exquisitely chiselled, and colored by the deepest 
blushes of the rose, had a seductive persuasiveness about it that 
might readily win one's own to some unconscious liberties ; 
while the natural positi 1 of the lips, leaving them slightly 


110 


GUY RIVERS. 


parted, gave to the mouth an added attraction in the double 
range which was displayed beneath of pearl-like and well formed 
teeth; her hair was unconfined, but short; and rendered the 
expression of her features more youthful and girl-like than 
might have been the result of its formal arrangement—it was 
beautifully glossy, and of a dark brown color. 

Her demeanor was that of maidenly reserve, and a ladylike 
dignity, a quiet serenity, approaching — at periods, when any 
remark calculated to infringe in the slightest degree upon those 
precincts with which feminine delicacy and form have guarded 
its possessor—a stern severity of glance, approving her a crea¬ 
ture taught in the true school of propriety, and chastened with 
a spirit that slept not on a watch, always of perilous exposure 
in one so young and of her sex. On more than one occasion did 
Ralph, in the course of the dinner, remark the indignant fire 
flashing from her intelligent eye, when the rude speech of some 
untaught boor assailed a sense finely-wrought to appreciate the 
proper boundaries to the always adventurous footstep of un¬ 
bridled licentiousness. The youth felt assured, from these oc¬ 
casional glimpses, that her education had been derived from a 
different influence, and that her spirit deeply felt and deplored 
the humiliation of her present condition and abode. 

The dinner-table, to which we now come, and which two or 
three negroes have been busily employed in cumbering with 
well-filled plates and dishes, was most plentifully furnished; 
though but few of its contents could properly be classed under 
the head of delicacies. There were eggs and ham, hot biscuits, 
hommony, milk, marmalade, venison, Johnny, or journey cakes, 
*nd dried fruits stewed. These, with the preparatory soup, 
formed the chief components of the rrpast. Everything was 
served up in a style of neatness and cleanliness, that, after all, 
was perhaps the best of all possible recommendations tc the 
feast; and Ralph soon found himself quite as busily employed 
as was consistent with prudence, in the destruction and over¬ 
throw of the tower of biscuits, the pile of eggs, and such other 
ox the edibles around him as were least likely to prove injurious 
to his debilitated system. 

The table was not large, and the seats were soon occupied. 
Villager after villager had made his appearance and taken hi« 


MORE OP THE DRAMATIS PERSONAE. 


Ill 


place without calling for observation; and, indeed, so busily 
were all employed, that he who should have made his entree at 
such a time with an emphasis commanding notice, might, not 
without reason, have been set down as truly and indefensibly 
impertinent. So might one have thought, not employed in like 
manner, and simply surveying the prospect. 

Forrester alone contrived to be less selfish than those about 
him, and our hero found his attentions at times rather trouble¬ 
some. Whatever in the estimation of the woodman seemed 
attractive, he studiously thrust into the youth’s plate, pressing 
him to eat. Chancing, at one of these periods of polite provis¬ 
ion on the part of his friend, to direct his glance to the opposite 
extreme of the table, he was struck with the appearance of a 
man 'whose eyes were fixed upon himself with an expression 
which he could not comprehend and did not relish. The look 
of this man was naturally of a sinister kind, but now his eyes 
wore a malignant aspect, which not only aroused the youth’s 
indignant retort through the same medium, but struck him as 
indicating a feeling of hatred to himself of a most singular char 
acter. Meeting the look of the youth, the stranger rose hurried 
ly and left the table, but still lingered in the apartment. Ralph 
was struck with his features, which it appeared to him he had 
seen before, but as the person wore around his checks, encom¬ 
passing his head, a thick handkerchief, it was impossible for 
him to decide well upon them. He turned to Forrester, who 
was busily intent upon the dissection of a chicken, and in a low 
tone inquired the name of the stranger. The woodman looked 
up and replied— 

‘‘Who that! — that’s Guy Rivers; though what he’s got his 
head tied up for, I can’t say. I’ll ask him and with the word, 
lie did so. 

In answer to the question, Rivers explained his bandaging 
by charging his jaws to have caught cold rather against his 
will, and to have swelled somewhat in consequence. While 
making this reply, Ralph again caught his glance, still cm ious- 
ly fixed upon himself, with an expression which again provoked 
his surprise, and occasioned a gathering sternness in the look 
of fiery indignation which he sent back in return. 

Rivers, immediately after this by-play, left the apartment 


112 


GUY RIVERS. 


The eye of Ralph changing its direction, beheld that of the 
young maiden observing him closely, with an expression of 
countenance so anxious, that he felt persuaded she must have 
beheld the muto intercourse, if so we may call it, between him* 
self and the person whose conduct had so ruffled him. The 
color had fled from her cheek, and there was something of 
warning in her gaze. The polish and propriety which had 
distinguished her manners so far as he had seen, were so differ¬ 
ent from anything that he had been led to expect, and remind¬ 
ed him so strongly of another region, that, rising from the table, 
he approached the place where she sat, took a chair beside her, 
and with a gentleness and ease, the due result of his own edu¬ 
cation and of the world he had lived in, commenced a conversa¬ 
tion with her, and was pleased to find himself encountered by a 
modest freedom of opinion, a grace of thought, and a general 
intelligence, which promised him better company than he had 
looked for. The villagers had now left the apartment, all but 
Forrester; who, following Ralph’s example, took up a seat be¬ 
side him, and sat a pleased listener to a dialogue, in which the 
intellectual charm was strong enough, except at very occasional 
periods, to prevent him from contributing much. The old lady 
sat silently by. She was a trembling, timid body, thin, pale, 
and emaciated, who appeared to have suffered much, and cer¬ 
tainly stood in as much awe of the man whose name she bore as 
it was well fitting in such a relationship to permit. She said as 
little as Forrester, but seemed equally well pleased with the at¬ 
tentions and the conversation of the youth. 

“ Find you not this place lonesome, Miss Munro ? You have 
been used, or I mistake much, to a more cheering, a more civil¬ 
ized region.” 

“I have, sir; and sometimes I repine—not so much at the 
world I live in, as for the world I have lost. Had I those about 
me with whom my earlier years were passed, the lonely situa¬ 
tion would trouble me slightly.’ 

She uttered these words with a sorrowful voice, and the 
moisture gathering in her eyes, gave them additional bright¬ 
ness. The youth, after some commonplace remark upon the 
vast difference between moral and physical privations, went 
on — 


MORE OF THE DRAMATIS PERSONAE. 


113 


“ Perhaps, Miss Munro, with a true knowledge of all the con¬ 
ditions of life, there may be thought little philosophy in the 
tears we shed at such privations. The fortune that is unavoid¬ 
able, however, I have always found the more deplorable for that 
very reason. I shall have to watch well, that I too he not sur¬ 
prised with regrets of a like nature with your own, since I find 
myself constantly recurring, in thought, to a world which per¬ 
haps 1 shall have little more to do with.” 

Rising from her seat, and leaving the room as she spoke, with 
a smile of studied gayety upon her countenance, full also of ear¬ 
nestness and a significance of manner that awakened surprise in 
the person addressed, the maiden replied — 

“ Let me suggest, sir, that you observe well the world you are 
in ; and do not forget, in recurring to that which you leave, that, 
while deploring the loss of friends in the one, you may he uncon¬ 
scious of the enemies which surround you in the other. Perhaps, 
sir, you will find my philosophy in this particular the most use¬ 
ful, if not the most agreeable.” 

Wondering at her language, which, though of general remark, 
and fairly deducible from the conversation, he could not avoid 
referring to some peculiar origin, the youth rose, and bowed 
with respectful courtesy as she retired. His eye followed her 
form for an instant, while his meditations momentarily wrapped 
themselves up more and more in inextricable mysteries, from 
which his utmost ingenuity of thought failed entirely to disen¬ 
tangle him. In a maze of conjecture lie passed from the room in¬ 
to the passage adjoining, and, taking advantage of its long range, 
promenaded with steps, and in a spirit, equally moody and uncer¬ 
tain. In a little time he was joined by Forrester, who seemed 
solicitous to divert his mind and relieve his melancholy, by de¬ 
scribing the country round, the pursuits, characters, and condi¬ 
tions of the people • the habits of the miners, and the produc¬ 
tiveness of their employ, in a manner inartificial and modest, 
and sometimes highly entertaining. 

While engaged in this way, the eye of Ralph caught the look 
of Rivers, again fixed upon him from the doorway leading into 
the great hall; and without a moment’s hesitation, with impetuous 
step, he advanced towards him, determined on some explanation 
of that curious interest which had become offensive; but when 


114 


GUY RIVERS. 


be approached him with this object the latter hastily left the 
passage. 

Taking Forrester’s arm, Ralph also left the house, in the 
hope to encounter this troublesome person again. But failing 
in this, they proceeded to examine the village, or such portions 
of’ it as might be surveyed without too much fatigue to the 
wounded man — whose hurts, though superficial, might by im¬ 
prudence become troublesome. They rambled till the sun went 
down, and at length returned to the tavern. 

This building, as we have elsewhere said, was of the very 
humblest description, calculated, it would seem, rather for a 
temporary and occasional than a lasting shelter. Its architec¬ 
ture, compared with that even of the surrounding log-houses of 
the country generally, was excessively rude; its parts were 
out of all proportion, fitted seemingly by an eye the most indif¬ 
ferent, and certainly without any, the most distant regard, to 
square and compass. It consisted of two stories, the upper be¬ 
ing assigned to the sleeping apartments. Each floor contained 
four rooms, accessible all, independently of one another, by en¬ 
trances from a great passage, running both above and below, 
through the centre of the structure. In addition to the main 
building, a shed in the rear of the main work afforded four other 
apartments, rather more closely constructed, and in somewhat 
better finish than the rest of the structure: these were in the 
occupation of the family exclusively. The logs, in this work, 
were barbarously uneven, and hewn only to a degree barely 
sufficient to permit of a tolerable level when placed one upon 
the other. Morticed together at the ends, so very loosely had 
the work been done, that a timid observer, and one not accus¬ 
tomed to the survey of such fabrics, might entertain many mis* 
givings of its security during one of those severe hurricanes 
which, in some seasons of the year, so dreadfully desolate the 
southern and southwestern country. Chimneys of clay and 
stone intermixed, of the rudest fashion, projected from the two 
ends of the building, threatening, with the toppling aspect 
which they wore, the careless wayfarer, and leaving it some¬ 
thing more than doubtful whether the oblique and outward 
direction which they took, was not the result of a wise precau¬ 
tion against a degree of contiguity with the fabric they were 


MORE OF THE DRAMATIS PERSONS. 


ll r 


meant to warm, which, from the liberal f»res of the pine woods, 
might have proved unfavorable to the protracted existence of 
either. 

The interior of the building aptly accorded with its outline. 
It was unceiled, and the winds were only excluded from access 
through the interstices between the remotely-allied logs, by the 
free use of the soft clay easily attainable in all that range of 
country. The light on each side of the building was received 
through a few small windows, one of which only was allotted 
to each apartment, and this was generally found to possess as 
many modes of fastening as the jail opposite—a precaution re¬ 
ferable to the great dread of the Indian outrages, and which 
their near neighborhood and irresponsible and vicious habits 
were well calculated to inspire. The furniture of the hotel am¬ 
ply accorded with all its other features. A single large and two 
small tables; a few old oaken chairs, of domestic manufacture, 
with bottoms made of ox or deer skin, tightly drawn over the 
seat, and either tied below with small cords or tacked upon the 
sides; a broken mirror, that stood ostentatiously over the man¬ 
tel, surmounted in turn by a well-smoked picture of the Wash¬ 
ington family in a tarnished gilt frame — asserting the Ameri¬ 
canism of the proprietor and place — completed the contents of 
the great hall, and were a fair specimen of what might be found 
in all the other apartments. The tavern itself, in reference to 
the obvious pursuit of many of those who made it their home, 
was entitled “The Golden Egg”—a title made sufficiently no¬ 
torious to the spectator, from a huge signboard, elevated some 
eight or ten feet above the building itself, bearing upon a light- 
blue ground a monstrous egg of the deepest yellow, the effect 
of which was duly heightened by a strong and thick shading of 
sable all round it—the artist, in this way, calculating no doubt 
to afford the object so encircled its legitimate relief. Lest, how¬ 
ever, his design in the painting itself should be at all question¬ 
able, he had taken the wise precaution of showing what was 
meant by printing the words “ Golden Egg ” in huge Roman 
letters, beneath it; these, in turn, being placed above another 
inscription, promising “Entertainment for man and horse.” 

But the night had now closed in, and coffee was in progress. 
Ralph took his seat with the rest of the lodgers, though without 


lit) 


GUY RIVERS. 


partaking of the feast. Rivers did not make his appearances 
much to the chagrin of the youth, who was excessively desirous 
to account for the curious observance of this man. He had 
some notion, besides, that the former was not utterly unknown 
to him; for, though unable to identify him with any one recol¬ 
lection, his features (what could be seen of them) were certainly 
not unfamiliar. After supper, requesting Forrester’s company 
’i his chamber, lie left the company—not, however, without a 
few moments’ chat with Lucy Munro and her aunt, conducted 
with some spirit by the former, and seemingly to the satisfaction 
of all. As they left the room, Ralph spoke : — 

“ 1 am not now disposed for sleep, Forrester, and, if you 
please, I should be glad to hear further about your village and 
the country at large. Something, too, I would like to know of 
this man Rivers, whose face strikes me as one that I should 
know, and whose eyes have been haunting me to-day rather 
more frequently than I altogether like, or shall be willing to 
submit to. Give me an hour, then, if not fatigued, in my cham¬ 
ber, and we will talk over these matters together.” 

“ Well, ’squire, that’s just what pleases me now. I like good 
company, and ’twill be more satisfaction to me, I reckon, than 
to you As for fatigue, that’s out of the question. Somehow 
or other, I never feel fatigued when I’ve got somebody to talk 
to.” 

(< With such a disposition, I wonder, Forrester, you have not 
been more intimate with the young lady of the house. Miss 
Lucy seems quite an intelligent girl, well-behaved, and vir¬ 
tuous.” 

“ Why, ’squire, she is all that; but, though modest and not 
proud, as you may see, yet she’s a little above my mark. She 
is book-learned, and I am not; and she paints, and is a musi¬ 
cian too and has all the accomplishments. She was an only 
child, and her father was quite another sort of person from his 
brother who now has her in management.” 

“ She is an orphan, then 1” 

“ Yes, poor girl, and she feels pretty clearly that this isn’t 
the sort of country in which she has a right to live. I like her 
very well, but, as I say, she’s a little above me; and, besides, 
you must know, ’squire, I’m rather fixed in another quarter.” 


MORE OF THE DRAMATIS PERSONS. 


117 


They had now reached the chamber of our hero, and the ser¬ 
vant having placed the light and retired, the parties took seats, 
and the conversation recommenced. 

“ I know not how it is, Forrester,” said the youth, “ but there 
are few men whose looks I so little like, and whom I would 
more willingly avoid, than that man Rivers. What he is I 
know not—but I suspect him of mischief. I may be doing 
wrong to the man, and injustice to his character; but, really, 
his eye strikes me as singularly malicious, almost murderous; 
and though not apt to shrink from men at any time, it provoked 
something of a shudder to-day when it met my own. He may 
be, and perhaps you may be able to say, whether he is a wor¬ 
thy person or not; for my part, I should only regard him as 
one to be watched jealously and carefully avoided. There is 
something creepingly malignant in the look which shoots out 
from his glance, like that of the rattlesnake, when coiled and 
partially concealed in the brake. When I looked upon his eye, 
as it somewhat impertinently singled me out for observation, I 
almost felt disposed to lift my heel as if the venomous reptile 
were crawling under it.” 

“ You are not the only one, ’squire, that’s afraid of Guy 
Rivers.” 

“Afraid of him ! you mistake me, Forrester; I fear no man,” 
replied the youth, somewhat hastily interrupting the woodman. 
“ I am not apt to fear, and certainly have no such feeling in 
regard to this person. I distrust, and would avoid him, merely 
as one who, while possessing none of the beauty, may yet have 
many of the propensities and some of the poison of the snake to 
which I likened him.” 

“Well, ’squire, I didn’t use the right word, that’s certain, 
when I said afraid, you see; because ’tan’t in Carolina and 
Georgia, and hereabouts, that men are apt to get frightened at 
trifles. But, as you say, Guy Rivers is not the right kind of 
man, and everybody here knows it, and keeps clear of him. 
None cares to say much to him, except when it’s a matter of 
necessity, and then they say as little as may be. Nobody 
knows much about him—he is here to-day and gone to-morrow 
— and we never see much of him except when there’s some 
mischief afoot. He is thick with Munro, and they keep to 


118 


GUY RIVERS. 


getlier at all times, I believe. He has money, and knows how 
to spend it. Where he gets it is quite another thing.” 

“ What can be the source of the intimacy between himself 
and Munro 1 Is he interested in the hotel V* 

“ Why, I can’t say for that, but I think not. The fact is, 
the tavern is nothing to Munro; he don’t care a straw 7 about it, 
and some among us do whisper that he only keeps it a-going as 
a kind of cover for other practices. There’s no doubt that they 
drive some trade together, though what it is I can’t say, and 
never gave myself much trouble to inquire. I can tell you 
what, though, there’s no doubt on my mind that he’s trying to 
get Miss Lucy—they say he’s fond of her—but I know for 
myself she hates and despises him, and don’t stop to let him 
see it.” 

“ She will not have him, then, you think 1” 

“ I know she won’t if she can help it. But, poor girl, what 
can she do ? She’s at the mercy, as you may see, of Munro, 
who is her father’s brother; and he don’t care a straw for her 
likes or dislikes. If he says the word, I reckon she can have 
nothing to say which will help her out of the difficulty. I’m 
sure he won’t regard prayers, or tears, or any of her objec¬ 
tions.” 

“ It’s a sad misfortune to be forced into connection with one 
in whom we may not confide — whom we can have no sympa¬ 
thy with — whom w 7 e can not love !” 

“ ’Tis so, ’squire; and that’s just her case, and she hates to 
see the very face of him, and avoids him whenever she can do 
so without giving offence to her uncle, who, they say, has threat¬ 
ened her bitterly about the scornful treatment which she shows 
him. It’s a wonder to me how any person, man or woman, can 
do otherwise than despise the fellow; for, look you, ’squire, 
over and above his sulky, sour looks, and his haughty conduct, 
would you believe it, he won’t drink himself, yet lie’s always 
for getting other people drunk. But that’s not all: he’s a quar¬ 
relsome, spiteful, sore-headed chap, that won’t do as other peo¬ 
ple. He never laughs heartily like a man, but always in a half- 
sniffling sort of manner that actually makes me sick at my stom¬ 
ach. Then, he never plays and makes merry along with us, 
and, if lie does, harm is always sure, somehow or other, to come 


MORE OF THE DRAMATIS PERSONAE. 110 

of it. When other people dance and frolic, he stands apart, 
with scorn in his face, and his black brows gathering clouds in 
such a way, that he would put a stop to all sport if people were 
only fools enough to mind him. For my part, I take care to 
have just as little to say to him as possible, and he to me, in¬ 
deed ; for he knows me just as well as I know him: and he 
knows, too, that if he only dared to crook his finger, I’m just 
the man that would mount him on the spot.” 

Ralph could not exactly comprehend the force of some of the 
objections urged by his companion to the character of Rivers: 
those, in particular, which described his aversion to the sports 
common to the people, only indicated a severer temper of mind 
and habit, and, though rather in bad taste, were certainly not 
criminal. Still there was enough to confirm his own hastily- 
formed suspicions of this person, and to determine him more 
fully upon a circumspect habit while in his neighborhood. He 
saw that his dislike and doubt were fully partaken of by those 
who, from circumstance and not choice, were his associates; 
and felt satisfied—though, as we have seen, without the knowl¬ 
edge of any one particular which might afford a reasonable war¬ 
ranty for his antipathy—that a feeling so general as Forrester 
described it could not be altogether without foundation. He 
felt assured, by an innate prediction of his own spirit, unuttered 
to his companion, that, at some period, he should find his antici¬ 
pations of this man’s guilt fully realized; though, at that mo¬ 
ment, he did not dream that he himself, in becoming his victim, 
should furnish to his own mind an almost irrefutable argument 
in support of that incoherent notion of relative sympathies and 
antipathies to which he had already, seemingly, given him¬ 
self up. 

The dialogue, now diverted to other topics, was not much 
longer protracted. The hour grew late, and the shutting up of 
the house, and the retiring of the family below, warned I or- 
rester of the propriety of making his own retreat to the little 
cabin in which he lodged. He shook Ralph's hand warmly, 
and, promising to see him at an early hour of the morning, took 
his departure. A degree of intimacy, rather inconsistent with 
our youth’s wonted haughtiness of habit, had sprung up between 
himself and the woodman — the result, doubtless, on the part ol 


120 


GUY RIVERS. 


the former, of the loneliness and to him novel character of his 
situation. He was cheerless and melancholy, and the associa¬ 
tion of a warm, well-meaning spirit had something consolatory 
in it. He thought too, and correctly, that, in the mind and 
character of Forrester, he discovered a large degree of sturdy, 
manly simplicity, and a genuine honesty—colored deeply with 
prejudices and without much polish, it is true, but highly sus¬ 
ceptible of improvement, and by no means stubborn or unrea¬ 
sonable in their retention. He could not but esteem the pos¬ 
sessor of such characteristics, particularly when shown in such 
broad contrast with those of his associates; and, without any 
other assurance of their possession by Forrester than the sym¬ 
pathies already referred to, he was not unwilling to recognise 
their existence in his person. That he came from the same 
part of the world with himself may also have had its effect— 
the more particularly, indeed, as the pride of birthplace was 
evidently a consideration with the woodman, and the praises of 
Carolina were rung, along with his own, in every variety of 
change through almost all his speeches. 

The youth sat musing for some time after the departure of 
Forrester. He was evidently employed in chewing the cud of 
sweet and bitter thought, and referring to memories deeply 
imbued with the closely-associated taste of both these extremes. 
After a while, the weakness of heart got seemingly the mastery, 
long battled with; and tearing open his vest, he displayed the 
massive gold chain circling his bosom in repeated folds, upon 
which hung the small locket containing Edith’s and his own 
miniature. Looking over his shoulder, as he gazed upon it, we 
are enabled to see the fair features of that sweet young girl, 
just entering her womanhood—her rich, brown, streaming hair, 
the cheek delicately pale, yet enlivened with a southern fire, 
that seems not improperly borrowed from the warm eyes that 
glisten above it. The ringlets gather in amorous clusters upon 
her shoulder, and half obscure a neck and bosom of the purest 
and most polished ivory. The artist had caught from his sub¬ 
ject something of inspiration, and the rounded bust seemed to 
heave before the sight, as if impregnated with the subtlest and 
sweetest life. The youth carried the semblance to his lips, and 
muttered words of love and reproach so strangely intermingled 


MORE OF THE DRAMATIS PERSONAS. 


121 


and in unison, that, could she have heard to whom they were 
seemingly addressed, it might have been difficult to have deter¬ 
mined the difference of signification between them. Gazing 
upon it long, and in silence, a large but solitary tear gathered 
in his eye, and finally finding its way through his fingers, rested 
upon the lovely features that appeared never heretofore to have 
been conscious of a cloud. As if there had been something of 
impiety and pollution in this blot upon so fair an outline, he 
hastily brushed the tear away; then pressing the features again 
to his lips, he hurried the jewelled token again into his bosom, 
and prepared himself for those slumbers upon which we forbear 
longer to intrude. 


6 


122 


GUY RIVER?. 


CHAPTER X 

THE BLACK DOG. 

While this brief scene was in progress in the chamber of 
Ralph, another, not less full of interest to that person, was 
passing in the neighborhood of the village-tavern; and, as this 
portion of our narrative yields some light which must tend 
greatly to our own, and the instruction of the reader, we pro¬ 
pose briefly to record it. It will be remembered, that, in the 
chapter preceding, we found the attention of the youth forcibly 
attracted toward one Guy Rivers—an attention, the result of 
various influences, which produced in the mind of the youth a 
degree of antipathy toward that person for which he himself 
could not, nor did we seek to account. 

It appears that Ralph was not less the subject of considera¬ 
tion with the individual in question. We have seen the degree 
and kind of espionage which the former had felt at one time 
disposed to resent; and how he was defeated in his design by 
the sudden withdrawal of the obnoxious presence. On his 
departure with Forrester from the gallery, Rivers reappeared 
— his manner that of doubt and excitement; and, after hurry¬ 
ing for a while with uncertain steps up and down the apartment, 
he passed hastily into the adjoining hall, where the landlord sat 
smoking, drinking, and expatiating at large with his guests. 
Whispering something in his ear, the latter rose, and the two 
proceeded into the adjoining copse, at a point as remote as pos¬ 
sible from hearing, when the explanation of this mysterious 
caution was opened by Rivers. 

“Well, Munro, we are like to have fine work with your 
accursed and blundering good-nature. Why did you not refuse 
lodgings to this youngster ? Are you ignorant who he is ? Do 
you not know him V' 


THE BLACK DOG. 


123 


“ Know him?—no, I know nothing about him. He seems a 
clever, good-looking lad, and I see no harm in him. What is it 
frightens you ?” was the reply and inquiry of the landlord. 

“Nothing frightens me, as you know by this time, or should 
know at least. But, if you know not the young fellow himself, 
you should certainly not be at a loss to know the creature he 
rides; for it is not long since your heart was greatly taken with 
him. He is the youth we set upon at the Catcheta pass, where 
your backwardness and my forwardness got me this badge—it 
has not yet ceased to bleed—the marks of which promise fairly 
to last me to my grave.” 

As he spoke he raised the handkerchief which bound his 
cheeks, and exposed to view a deep gash, not of a serious 
character indeed, but which, as the speaker asserted, would 
most probably result in a mark which would last him his life. 
The exposure of the face confirms the first and unfavorable 
impression which we have already received from his appear¬ 
ance, and all that we have any occasion now to add in this 
respect will be simply, that, though not beyond the prime of 
life, there were ages of guilt, of vexed and vexatious strife, un¬ 
regulated pride, without aim or elevation, a lurking malignity, 
and hopeless discontent — all embodied in the fiendish and 
fierce expression which that single glimpse developed to the 
spectator. He went on — 

“ Had it been your lot to be in my place, I should not now 
have to tell you who he is; nor should we have had any appre¬ 
hensions of his crossing our path again. But so it is. You are 
always the last to your place;—had you kept your appoint¬ 
ment, we should have had no difficulty, and I should have 
escaped the mortification of being foiled by a mere stripling, 
and almost stricken to death by the heel of his horse.” 

“ And all your own fault and folly, Guy. What business had 
you to advance upon the fellow, as you did, before everything 
was ready, and when we could have brought him, without any 
risk whatever, into the snare, from which nothing could have 
got him out ? But no ! You must be at your old tricks of the 
law—you must make speeches before you cut purses, as was 
your practice when I first knew you at Gwinnett county-court; 
a practice which you seem not able to get over. You have got 


124 


GUY RIVERS. 


into such a trick of making fun of people, that, for the life of 
me, I can’t be sorry that the lad has turned the tables so hand¬ 
somely upon you.” 

“ You would no doubt have enjoyed the scene with far more 
satisfaction, had the fellow’s shot taken its full effect on my 
skull — since, besides the failure of our object, you have such 
cause of merriment in what has been done. If I did go some¬ 
thing too much ahead in the matter, it is but simple justice to 
say you were quite as much aback.” 

“ Perhaps so, Guy; but the fact is, I was right and you 
wrong, and the thing’s beyond dispute. This lesson, though a 
rough one, will do you service; and a few more such will per¬ 
haps cure you of that vile trick you have of spoiling not only 
your own, but the sport of others, by running your head into 
unnecessary danger; and since this youth, who got out of the 
scrape so handsomely, has beat you at your own game, it may 
euro you of that cursed itch for tongue-trifling, upon which you 
so much pride yourself. ’Twould have done, and it did very 
well at the county sessions, in getting men out of the wood; 
but as you have commenced a new business entirely, it’s but 
well to leave oft’ the old, particularly as it’s now your policy to 
get them into it.” 

“ I shall talk as I please, Munro, and see not why, and care 
not whether, my talk offends you or not. I parleyed with the 
youth only to keep him in play until your plans could be put 
in operation.” 

“Very good — that was all very well, Guy—and had you 
kept to your intention, the thing would have done. But lie 
replied smartly to your speeches, and your pride and vanity 
got to work. You must answer smartly and sarcastically in 
turn, and you see what’s come of it. You forgot the knave in 
the wit; and the mistake was incurable. Why tell him that 
you wanted to pick his pocket, and perhaps cut his throat ?” 

“That was a blunder, I grant; but the fact is, I entirely mis¬ 
took the man. Besides, I had a reason for so doing, which it is 
not necessary to speak about now.” 

“Oh, ay—it wouldn’t be lawyer-like, if you hadn’t a reason 
for everything, however unreasonable,” was the retort. 

“ Perhaps not, Munro ; but this is not the matter now. Our 


THE BLACK DOG. 


125 


present object must be to put this youth out of the way. We 
must silence suspicion, for, though we are pretty much beyond 
the operation of law in this region, yet now and then a sheriffs 
officer takes off some of the club; and, as I think it is always 
more pleasant to be out of the halter than in it, I am clear for 
making the thing certain in the only practicable way.” 

“ But, are you sure that he is the man ? I should know his 
horse, and shall look to him, for he’s a fine creature, and I 
should like to secure him; which I think will be the case, if 
you are not dreaming as usual.” 

“ I am sure — I do not mistake.” 

“Well, I’m not; and I should like to hear what it is you 
know him by ?” 

A deeper and more malignant expression overspread the face 
of Rivers, as, with a voice in which his thought vainly struggled 
for mastery with a vexed spirit, he replied:— 

“ What have I to know him by ? you ask. I know him by 
many things—and when I told you I had my reason for talk 
ing with him as I did, I might have added that he was known 
to me, and fixed in my lasting memory, by wrongs and injuries 
before. But there is enough in this for recollection,” pointing 
again to his cheek — “this carries with it answer sufficient. 
You may value a clear face slightly, having known none other 
than a blotted one since you have known your own, but I have 
a different feeling in this. He has written himself here, and 
the damned writing is perpetually and legibly before my eyes. 
He has put a brand, a Cain-like, accursed brand upon my face, 
the language of which can not be hidden from men; and yet 
you ask me if I know the executioner ? Can I forget him ? If 
you think so, Munro, you know little of Guy Rivers.” 

The violence of his manner as he spoke well accorded with 
the spirit of what he said. The landlord, with much coolness 
and precision, replied :— 

“ I confess I do know but little of him, and have yet much to 
learn. If you have so little temper in your speech, I have cho¬ 
sen you badly as a confederate in employments which require so 
much of that quality. This gash, which, when healed, will be 
scarcely perceptible, you speak of with all the mortification of 
a young girl, to whom, indeed, such would be an awful injury 


126 


GUY RIVERS. 


How long is it, Guy, since you have become so particularly 
solicitous of beauty, so proud of your face and features V* 

“ You will spare your sarcasm for another season, Munro, if 
you would not have strife. I am not now in the mood to listen 
to much, even from you, in the way of sneer or censure. Per¬ 
haps, I am a child in this, but I can not be otherwise. Besides, 
I discover in this youth the person of one to whom I owe much 
in the growth of this very hell-heart, which embitters every¬ 
thing about and within me. Of this, at another time, you shall 
hear more. Enough that I know this boy—that it is more 
than probable he knows me, and may bring us into difficulty-— 
that I hate him, and will not rest satisfied until we are secure, 
and I have my revenge.” 

“ Well, well, be not impatient, nor angry. Although I still 
doubt that the youth in the house is your late opponent, you may 
have suffered wrong at his hands, and you may be right in your 
conjecture.” 

“ I am right—I do not conjecture. I do not so readily mis¬ 
take my man, and I was quite too near him on that occasion 
not to see every feature of that face, which, at another and an 
earlier day, could come between me and my dearest joys — but, 
why speak I of this ? I know him : not to remember would be 
to forget that I am here; and that he was a part of that very 
influence which made me league, Munro, with such as you, and 
become a creature of, and a companion with, men whom even 
now I despise. I shall not soon forget his stern and haughty 
smile of scorn — his proud bearing—his lofty sentiment—all 
that I most admire — all that I do not possess—and when to¬ 
day he descended to dinner, guided by that meddling booby, 
Forrester, I knew him at a glance. I should know him among 
ten thousand.” 

“ It’s to be hoped that he will have no such memory. I can’t 
see, indeed, how he should recognise either of us. Our disguises 
were complete. Your whiskers taken off, leave you as far from 
any resemblance to what you were in that affair, as any two 
men can well be from one another; and I am perfectly satisfied 
he has little knowledge of me.” 

“ How should he V’ retorted the other. “ The better part of 
valor saved you from all risk of danger or discovery alike; but 


THE BLACK DOG. 


127 


the case is different with me. It may be that, enjoying the hap¬ 
piness which I have lost, he has forgotten the now miserable 
object that once dared to aspire — but no matter—it may bo 
that I am forgotten by him—he can never be by me.” 

This speech, which had something in it vague and purpose¬ 
less to the mind of Munro, was uttered with gloomy emphasis, 
more as a soliloquy than a reply, by the speaker. His hands 
were passed over his eyes as if in agony, and his frame seemed 
to shudder at some remote recollection which had still the dark 
influence upon him. Munro was a dull man in all matters that 
belong to the heart, and those impulses which characterize souls 
of intelligence and ambition. He observed the manner of his 
companion, but said nothing in relation to it; and the latter, 
unable to conceal altogether, or to suppress even partially his 
emotions, did not deign to enter into any explanation in regard 
to them. 

“ Does he suspect anything yet, Guy, think you?—have you 
seen anything which might sanction a thought that he knew or 
conjectured more than he should?” inquired Munro, anxiously. 

“ I will not say that he does, but he has the perception of a 
lynx—he is an apt man, and his eyes have been more frequent¬ 
ly upon me to-day than I altogether relish or admire. It is true, 
mine were upon him — as how, indeed, if death were in the look, 
could I have kept them off! I caught his glance frequently; turn¬ 
ing upon me with that stern, still expression, indifferent and in¬ 
solent— as if he cared not even while he surveyed. I remember 
that glance three years ago, when he was indeed a boy—I re¬ 
membered it v'hen, but a few days since, he struck me to the 
earth, and would have ridden me to death with the hoofs of his 
horse, but for your timely appearance.” 

“ It may be as you believe, Guy; but, as I saw nothing in his 
manner or countenance affording ground for such a belief, I can 
not but conceive it to have been because of the activity of your 
suspicions that you discovered his. I did not perceive that he 
looked upon you with more curiosity than upon any other at 
table; though, if he had done so, I should by no means have 
been disposed to wonder; for at this time, and since your face 
has been so tightly bandaged, you have a most villanously at¬ 
tractive visage. It carries with it, though you do regard it with 


128 


GUY RIVERS. 


so much favor, a full and satisfactory reason for observance, with- 
out rendering necessary any reference to any more serious mat* 
ter than itself. On the road, I take it, he saw quite too little 
of either of us to he able well to determine what was what, or 
who was who, either then or now. The passage was dark, our 
disguises good, and the long hair and monstrous whiskers which 
you wore did the rest. I have no apprehensions, and see not 
that you need have any.” 

“ I would not rest in this confidence—let us make sure that 
if he knows anything he shall say nothing,” was the significant 
reply of Rivers. 

“ Guy, you are too fierce and furious. When there’s a neces¬ 
sity, do you see, for using teeth, you know me to be always 
ready; but I will not be for ever at this sort of work. If I 
were to let you have your way you’d bring the whole country 
down upon us. There will be time enough when we see a 
reason for it to tie up this young man’s tongue.” 

“I see — I see!—you are ever thus—ever risking our 
chance upon contingencies when you might build strongly upon 
certainties. You are perpetually trying the strength of the 
rope, when a like trouble would render it a sure hold-fast. 
Rather than have the possibility of this thing being blabbed, I 
would—” 

“ Hush—hark !” said Munro, placing his hand upon the arm 
of his companion, and drawing him deeper into the copse, at 
the moment that Forrester, who had just left the chamber of 
Ralph, emerged from the tavern into the open air. The outlaw 
had not placed himself within the shadow of the trees in time 
sufficient to escape the searching gaze of the woodman, wlio, 
seeing the movement and only seeing one person, leaped nimbly 
forward with a light footstep, speaking thus as he approached: 

“Hello! there—who’s that—the pedler, sure. Have at 
you, Bunce!” seizing as he spoke the arm of the retreating 
figure, who briefly and sternly addressed him as follows:— 

“ It is well, Mr. Forrester, that he you have taken in hand is 
almost as quiet in temper as the pedler you mistake him for. 
else your position might prove uncomfortable. Take your fin¬ 
gers from my arm, if you please.” 

“Oh, it’s you, Guy Rivers—and you here too, Munro, ma 


THE BLACK DOG. 


129 


king love to one another, I reckon, for want of better stuff. 
Well, who’d have thought to find you two squatting here in the 
bushes! Would you believe it now, I took you for the Yan¬ 
kee—not meaning any offence though.” 

“ As I am not the Yankee, however, Mr. Forrester, you will 
I suppose, withdraw your hand,” said the other, with a manner 
sufficiently haughty for the stomach of the person addressed. 

“ Oh, to be sure, since you wish it, and are not the pedler,” 
returned the other, with a manner rather looking, in the country 
phrase, to “ a squaring off for a fight”—“ but you needn’t be so 
gruff about it. You are on business, I suppose, and so I leave 
you.” 

“ A troublesome fool, who is disposed to be insolent,” said 
Rivers, after Forrester’s departure. 

“Damn him!” was the exclamation of the latter, on leaving 
the copse—“ I feel very much like putting my fingers on his 
throat; and shall do it, too, before he gets better manners!” 

The dialogue between the original parties was resumed. 

“ I tell you again, Munro—it is not by any means the wisest 
policy to reckon and guess and calculate that matters will go 
on smoothly, when we have it in our own power to make them 
certainly go on so. We must leave nothing to guess-work, and 
a single blow will readily teach this youth the proper way to be 
quiet.” 

“Why, what do you drive at, Guy. What would you do—• 
what should be done ?” 

“ Beef — beef— beef! mere beef! How dull you are to-night! 
were you in yon gloomy and thick edifice (pointing to the 
prison which frowned in perspective before them), with irons 
on your hands, and with the prospect through its narrow-grated 
loopholes, of the gallows-tree, at every turning before you, it 
might be matter of wonder even to yourself that you should 
have needed any advice by which to avoid such a risk and 
prospect.” 

“Look you, Guy—I stand in no greater danger than your¬ 
self of the prospect of which you speak. The subject is, at 
best, an ugly one, and I do not care to hear it spoken of by 
you, above all other people. If you want me to talk civilly 
with you, you must learn yourself to keep a civil tongue in your 

6 * 


130 


GUY RIVERS. 


head. 1 don’t seek to quarrel with anybody, but I will not 
submit ti be threatened with the penalties of the rogue by one 
who is a damned sight greater rogue than myself.” 

“You call things by their plainest names, Wat, at least,” 
said the other, with a tone moderated duly for the purpose of 
soothing down the bristles hj had made to rise—“but you 
mistake me quite. I meant r.o threat; I only sought to show 
you how much we were at the mercy of a single word from a 
wanton and head-strong youth. I will not say confidently that 
he remembers me, but he had some opportunities for seeing my 
face, and looked into it closely enough. I can meet any fate 
with fearlessness, but should rather avoid it, at all risks, when 
it’s in my power to do so.” 

“ You are too suspicious, quite, Guy, even for our business. 
I am older than you, and have seen something more of the 
w r orld : suspicion and caution are not the habit with young men 
like this. They are free enough, and confiding enough, and in 
this lies our success. It is only the old man—the experienced 
in human affairs, that looks out for traps and pitfalls. It is for 
the outlaw—for you and me—to suspect all; to look with fear 
even upon one another, when a common interest, and perhaps 
a common fate, ought to bind us together. This being our 
habit, arising as it must from our profession, it is natural but not 
reasonable to refer a like spirit to all other persons. We are 
wrong in this, and you are wrong in regard to this youth—not 
that I care to save him, for if he but looks or winks awry, I shall 
silence him myself, without speech or stroke from you being 
necessary. But I do not think he made out your features, and 
do not think he looked for them. He had no time for it, after 
the onset, and you were well enough disguised before. If he 
had made out anything, he would have shown it to-night; but, 
saving a little stiffness, which belongs to all these young men 
from Carolina, I saw nothing in his manner that looked at all 
out of the way.” 

“Well, Munro, you are bent on having the thing as you 
please. You will find, when too late, that your counsel will end 
in having us all in a hobble.” 

“ Pshaw! you are growing old and timid since this adventure. 
You begin to doubt your own powers of defence. You find 


THE BLACK DOG. 


131 


your arguments failing; and you fear that, when the tinm 
comes, you will not plead with your old spirit, though for the 
extrication of your own instead of the neck of your neighbor/ 5 
“ Perhaps so—but, if there be no reason for apprehension, 
there is something due to me in the way of revenge. Is the 
fellow to hurl me down, and trench my cheek in this manner, 
and escape without hurt'?” 

The eyes of the speaker glared with a deadly fury, as he 
indicated in this sentence another motive for his persevering 
hostility to Colleton — an hostility for which, as subsequent 
passages will show, he had even a better reason than the un¬ 
pleasing wound in his face; which, nevertheless, was in itself, 
strange as it may appear, a considerable eyesore to its proprietor. 
Munro evidently understood this only in part; and, unaccus¬ 
tomed to attribute a desire to shed blood to any other than a 
motive of gain or safety, and without any idea of mortified 
pride or passion being productive of a thirst unaccountable to 
his mind, except in this manner, he proceeded thus, in a sen¬ 
tence, the dull simplicity of which only the more provoked the 
ire of his companion — 

“What do you think to do, Guy — what recompense would 
you seek to have—what would satisfy you?” 

The hand of Rivers grasped convulsively that of the ques¬ 
tioner as he spoke, his eyes were protruded closely into his 
face, his voice was thick, choking and husky, and his words 
tremulous, as he replied, 

“ His blood—his blood!” 

The landlord started back with undisguised horror from his 
glance. Though familiar with scenes of violence and crime, 
and callous in their performance, there was more of the Mam¬ 
mon than the Moloch in his spirit, and he shuddered at the 
fiendlike look that met his own. The other proceeded:— 

« The trench in my cheek is nothing to that within my soul. 
I tell you. Munro, I hate the boy—I hate him with a hatred 
that must have a tiger-draught from his veins, and even then I 
will not be satisfied. But why talk I to you thus, when he is 
almost in my grasp, and there is neither let nor hinderance ? 
Sleeps he not in yon room to the northeast V 1 

'* He does, Guy—but it must not be ! I must not risk all for 


132 


GUY RIVERS. 


your passion, which seems to me, as weak as it is without ade¬ 
quate provocation. I care nothing for the youth, and you know 
it; but I will not run the thousand risks which your temper is 
for ever bringing upon me. There is nothing to be gained, and 
a great deal to be lost by it, at this time. As for the scar — 
that, I think, is fairly a part of the business, and is not properly 
a subject of personal revenge. It belongs to the adventure, and 
you should not have engaged in it, without a due reference to 
its possible consequences.” 

“ You shall not keep me back by such objections as these. 
Do I not know how little you care for the risk—how little you 
can lose by it V* 

“ True, I can lose little, but I have other reasons; and, how¬ 
ever it may surprise you, those reasons spring from a desire for 
your good rather than my own.” 

“For my good?” replied the other, with an inquiring sneer. 

“ Yes, for your good, or rather for Lucy’s. You wish to mar¬ 
ry her. She is a sweet child, and an orphan. She merits a fai 
better man than you; and, bound as I am to give her to you, I 
am deeply bound to myself and to her, to make you as worthy 
of her as possible, and to give her as many chances for happi¬ 
ness as I can.” 

An incredulous smile played for a second upon the lips of the 
outlaw, succeeded quickly, however, by the savage expression, 
wh’.ch, from being that most congenial to his feelings, had be- 
cojne that most habitual to his face. 

“ I can not be deceived by words like these,” was his reply, 
a'j he stepped quickly from under the boughs which had shel¬ 
tered them and made toward the house. 

“ Think not to pursue this matter, Guy, on your life. I will 
not permit it; not now, at least, if I have to strike for the youth 
myself.” 

Thus spoke the landlord, as he advanced in the same direc¬ 
tion. Both were deeply roused, and, though not reckless alike, 
Munro was a man quite as decisive in character as his compan¬ 
ion was ferocious and vindictive. What might have been the 
result of their present position, had it not undergone a new in¬ 
terruption, might not well be foreseen. The sash of one of the 
apartments of the building devoted to the family was suddenly 


THE BLACK DOG. 


188 


thrown up, and a soft and plaintive voice, accompanying the 
wandering and b v 'ken strains of a guitar, rose sweetly into song 
upon the ear. 

“ ’Tis Lucy- -the poor girl! Stay, Guy, and hear her music. 
She does not often sing now-a-days. She is quite melancholy, 
and it’s a long time since I’ve heard her guitar. She sings and 
plays sweetly; her poor father had her taught everything be 
fore he failed, for he was very proud of her, as well he might 
be.” 

They sunk again into the covert, the outlaw muttering sullen¬ 
ly at the interruption which had come between him and his 
purposes. The music touched him not, for he betrayed no 
consciousness ; when, after a few brief preliminary notes on the 
instrument, the musician breathed forth the little ballad which 
follows: — 


LUCY’S SONG. 


I met thy glance of scorn, 

And then my anguish slept, 
But, when the crowd was gone, 
I turned away and wept. 


“ I could not bear the frown 

Of one who thus could move, 
And feel that all my fault, 

Was only too much love. 

ill. 

“ I ask not if thy heart 

Hath aught for mine in store, 
Yet, let me love thee still, 

If thou canst yield no more 


“ Let me unchidden gaze, 

Still, on the heaven I see, 

Though all its happy rays 
Be still denied to me.” 

A broken line of the lay, murmured at intervals for a few 
minutes after the entire piece was concluded, as it were in solil- 
oquy, indicated the sad spirit of the minstrel. She did not re- 


134 


GUY RIVERS. 


main long at the window; in a little while the song ceased, and 
the light was withdrawn from the apartment. The musician 
had retired. 

“ They say, Guy, that music can quiet the most violent spirit, 
and it seems to have had its influence upon you. Does she not 
sing like a mocking-bird?— is she not a sweet, a true creature? 
Why, man! so forward and furious but now, and now so life¬ 
less ! bestir ye ! The night wanes.” 

The person addressed started from his stupor, and, as if utter¬ 
ly unconscious of what had been going on, ad interim , actually 
replied to the speech of his companion made a little while prior 
to the appearance and music of the young girl, whose presence 
at that moment had most probably prevented strife and, possi¬ 
bly, bloodshed. He spoke as if the interruption had made 
only a momentary break in the sentence which he now con¬ 
cluded :— 

‘ He lies at the point of my knife, under my hands, within 
my power, without chance of escape, and I am to be held back 
—kept from striking — kept from my revenge — and for what? 
There may be little gain in the matter—it may not bring mon¬ 
ey, and there may be some risk! If it be with you, Munro, 
to have neither love nor hate, but what you do, to do only for 
the profit and spoil that come of it, it is not so with me. I can 
both love and hate; though it be, as it has been, that I enter¬ 
tain the one feeling in vain, and am restrained from the enjoy¬ 
ment of the other.” 

“You were born in a perverse time, and are querulous, for 
the sake of the noise it makes,” rejoined his cool companion. 
“ I do not desire to restrain your hands from this young man, 
but take your time for it. Let nothing be done to him while in 
this house. I will run, if I can help it, no more risk for your 
passions; and I must confess myself anxious, if the devil will 
let me, of stopping right short in the old life and beginning a 
new one. I have been bad enough, and done enough, to keep 
me at my prayers all the rest of my days, were I to live on to 
eternity.” 

“ This new spirit, I suppose, we owe to your visit to the last 
camp-meeting. You will exhort, doubtless, yourself, before 
long, if you keep this track. Why, what a prophet you will 


THE BLACK DOG. 135 

make among the crop-haired, Munro ! what a brand from the 
burning!” 

“Look you, Guy, your sarcasm pleases me quite as little as 
it did the young fellow, who paid it back so much better than I 
can. Be wise, if you can, while you are wary; if your words 
continue to come from the same nest, they will beget some¬ 
thing more than words, my good fellow.” 

“ True, and like enough, Munro; and why do you provoke 
me to say them V* replied Rivers, something more sedately. 
“You see me in a passion — you know that I have cause—for 
is not this cause enough — this vile scar on features, now hide¬ 
ous, that were once surely not unpleasing.” 

As he spoke he dashed his fingers into the wound, which he 
still seemed pleased to refer to, though the reference evidently 
brought with it bitterness and mortification. He proceeded— 
his passion again rising predominant — 

“ Shall I spare the wretch whose ministry defaced me — shall 
I not have revenge on him who first wrote villain here — who 
branded me as an accursed thing, and among things bright and 
beautiful gave me the badge, the blot, the heel-stamp, due the 
serpent? Shall I not have my atonement—my sacrifice — 
and shall you deny me—you, Walter Munro, who owe it to 
me in justice 1” 

“I owe it to you, Guy—how?” 

“ You taught me first to be the villain you now find me. You 
first took me to the haunts of your own accursed and hell-edu¬ 
cated crew. You taught me all their arts, their contrivances, 
their lawlessness, and crime. You encouraged my own de¬ 
formities of soul till they became monsters, and my own spirit 
such a monster that I no longer knew myself. You thrust the 
weapon into my hand, and taught me its use. You put me on 
the scent of blood, and bade me lap it. I will not pretend that 
I was not ready and pliable enough to your hands. There was, 
I feel, little difficulty in moulding me to your own measure. I 
was an apt scholar, and soon ceased to be the subordinate vil¬ 
lain. I was your companion, and too valuable to you to be lost 
or left. When I acquired new views of man, and began, in an¬ 
other sphere, that new life to which you would now turn your 
own eyes — when I grew strong among men, and famous, and 


186 


GUY RIVERS. 


public opinion grew enamored with the name, which your des¬ 
tiny compelled me to exchange for another, you sought me out 
—you thrust your enticements upon me; and, in an hour of 
gloom, and defeat, and despondency, you seized upon me with 
those claws of tempation which are even now upon my shoul¬ 
ders, and I gave up all! I made the sacrifice—name, fame, 
honor, troops of friends—for what? Answer you / You are 
rich — you own slaves in abundance—secure from your own 
fortunes, you have wealth hourly increasing. What have I ? 
This scar, this brand, that sends me among men no longer the 
doubtful villain — the words are written there in full!” 

The speaker paused, exhausted. His face was pale and 
livid—his form trembled with convulsion — and his lips grew 
white and chalky, while quivering like a troubled water. The 
landlord, after a gloomy pause, replied :— 

“ You have spoken but the truth, Guy, and anything that I 
can do—” 

“ You will not do !” responded the other, passionately, and in¬ 
terrupting the speaker in his speech. “ You will do nothing! 
You ruin me in the love and esteem of those whom I love and 
esteem—you drive me into exile—you lead me into crime, 
and put me upon a pursuit which teaches me practices that 
brand me with man’s hate and fear, and — if the churchmen 
speak truth, which I believe not — with heaven’s eternal pun¬ 
ishment! What have I left to desire but hate — blood — the 
blood of man — who, in driving me away from his dwelling, has 
made me an unrelenting enemy—his hand everywhere against 
me, and mine against him ! While I had this pursuit, I did not 
complain; but you now interpose to deny me even this. The 
boy whom I hate, not merely because of his species, but, in ad¬ 
dition, with a hate incurred by himself, you protect from my 
vengeance, though affecting to be utterly careless of his fate — 
and all this you conclude with a profession of willingness to do 
for me whatever you can ! What miserable mockery is this ?” 

“And have I done nothing—and am I seeking to do noth¬ 
ing for you, Guy, by way of atonement 1 Have I not pledged 
to you the person of my niece, the sweet young innocent, whc 
is not unworthy to be tbe wife of the purest and proudest gen¬ 
tleman of the southern country 1 Is this nothing—is it nothing 


THE BLACK DOG. 


137 


to sacrifice such a creature to such a creature ? For well I know 
what must be her fate when she becomes your wife. Well I 
know you ! Vindictive, jealous, merciless, wicked, and fearless 
in wickedness—God help me, for it will be the very worst crime 
I have ever yet committed! These are all your attributes, and 
I know the sweet child will have to suffer from the perpetual 
exercise ot all of them.” 

“Perhaps so! and as she will then be mine, she must suffer 
them, if I so decree; but what avails your promise, so long as 
you—in this matter a child yourself—suffer her to protract 
and put off at her pleasure. Me she receives with scorn and 
contempt, you with tears and entreaties; and you allow their 
influence; in the hope, doubtless, that some lucky chance — the 
pistol-shot or the hangman’s collar—will rid you of my impor¬ 
tunities. Is it not so, Munro ?” said the ruffian, with a sneer of 
contemptuous bitterness. 

“ It would be, indeed, a lucky event for both of us, Guy, were 
you safely in the arms of your mother; though I have not 
delayed in this affair with any such hope. God knows I should 
be glad, on almost any terms, to be fairly free from your eter¬ 
nal croakings — never at rest, never satisfied, unless at some 
new deviltry and ill deed. If I did give you the first lessons 
in your education, Guy, you have long since gone beyond your 
master; and I’m something disposed to think that Old Nick 
himself must have taken up your tuition, where, from want of 
corresponding capacity, I was compelled to leave it off.” 

And the landlord laughed at his own humor, in despite of the 
hyena-glare shot forth from the eye of the savage he addressed. 
He continued: — 

“But, Guy, I’m not for letting the youth off—that’s as you 
please. You have a grudge against him, and may settle it to 
your own liking and in your own way. I have nothing to say 
to that. But I am determined to do as little henceforth toward 
hanging myself as possible; and, therefore, the thing must not 
take place here. Nor do I like that it should be done at all 
without some reason. When he blabs, there’s a necessity for 
the thing, and self-preservation, you know, is the first law of 
nature. The case will then be as much mine as yours, and I’ll 
lend a helping hand willingly.” 


138 


GUY RIVERS. 


“My object, Munro, is scarcely the same with yours. It 
goes beyond it; and, whether he knows much or little, or speaks 
nothing or everything, it is still the same thing to me. I must 
have my revenge. But, for your own safety—are you bent on 
running the risk V* 

“ I am Guy, rather than spill any more blood unnecessarily. 
I have already shed too much, and my dreams begin to trouble 
me as I get older,” was the grave response of the landlord. 

“And how, if he speaks out, and you have no chance either 
to stop his mouth or to run for it ?” 

“Who’ll believe him, think you?—where’s the proof? Do 
you mean to confess for both of us at the first question ?” 

“ True—,” said Rivers, “ there would be a difficulty in con¬ 
viction, but his oath would put us into some trouble.” 

“ I think not; our people know nothing about him, and would 
scarcely lend much aid to have either of us turned upon our 
backs,” replied Munro, without hesitation. 

“ Well, be it then as you say. There is yet another subject, 
Munro, on which I have just as little reason to be satisfied as 
this. How long will you permit this girl to trifle with us both ? 
Why should you care for her prayers and pleadings—her tears 
and entreaties ? If you are determined upon the matter, as I 
have your pledge, these are childish and unavailing; and the 
delay can have no good end, unless it be that you do in fact 
look, as I have said, and as I sometimes think, for some chance 
to take me off, and relieve you of my importunities and from 
your pledges.” 

“ Look you, Guy, the child is my own twin-brother’s only 
one, and a sweet creature it is. I must not be too hard with 
her; she begs time, and I must give it.” 

“Why, how much time would she have? Heaven knows 
what she considers reasonable, or what you or I should call so; 
but to my mind she has had time enough, and more by far than 
I was willing for. You must bring her to her senses, or let me 
do so. To my thought, she is making fools of us both.” 

“ It is, enough, Guy, that you have my promise. She shall 
consent, and I will hasten the matte; as fast as I can; but I 
will not drive her, nor will I be driven myself. Your love is 
not such a desperate affair as to burn itself out for the want of 



THE BLACK DOG. 


139 


better fuel j and you can wait for the proper season. If I 
thought for a moment that you did or could have any regard 
for the child, and she could be happy or even comfortable with 
you, I might push the thing something harder than I do; but, 
as it stands, you must be patient. The fruit drops when it is 
ripe.” 

“ Rather when the frost is on it, and the worm is in the core, 
and decay has progressed to rottenness! Speak you in this 
way to the hungry boy, whose eyes have long anticipated his 
appetite, and he may listen to you and be patient—I neither 
can nor will. Look to it, Munro : I will not much longer sub¬ 
mit to be imposed upon.” 

“ Nor I, Guy Rivers. You forget yourself greatly, and entire¬ 
ly mistake me, when you take these airs upon you. You are fe¬ 
verish now, and I will not suffer myself to grow angry; but be 
prudent in your speech. We shall see to all this to-morrow and 
the next day—there is quite time enough—when we are both 
cooler and calmer than at present. The night is something too 
warm for deliberation; and it is well we say no more on the one 
subject till we learn the course of the other. The hour is late, 
and we had best retire. In the morning I shall ride to hear 
old Parson Witter, in company with the old woman and Lucy. 
Ride along with us, and we shall be able better to understand 
one another.” 

As he spoke, Munro emerged from the cover of the tree under 
which their dialogue had chiefly been carried on, and reap- 
proaclied the dwelling, from which they had considerably re¬ 
ceded. His companion lingered in the recess. 

“ I will be there,” said Rivers, as they parted, “ though I still 
propose a ride of a few miles to-night. My blood is hot, and I 
must quiet it with a gallop.” 

The landlord looked incredulous as he replied—“ Some more 
deviltry : I will take a bet that the cross-roads see you in an 
hour.” 

“Not impossible,” was the response, and the parties were 
both lost to sight—the one in the shelter of his dwelling, the 
other in the dim shadow of the trees which girdled it. 


140 


GUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XI 

FOREST PREACHING. 

At an early hour of the ensuing morning, Ralph was aroused 
from his slumbers, which had been more than grateful from the 
extra degree of fatigue he had the day before undergone, by 
the appearance of Forrester, who apologized for the somewhat 
unseasonable nature of his visit, by bringing tidings of a preacher 
and of a preaching in the neighborhood on that day. It was 
the sabbath — and though, generally speaking, very far from 
being kept holy in that region, yet, as a day of repose from 
labor—a holy day, in fact—it was observed, at all times, with 
more than religious scrupulosity. Such an event among the 
people of this quarter was always productive of a congregation. 
The occurrence being unfrequent, its importance was duly and 
necessarily increased in the estimation of those, the remote and 
insulated position of whom rendered society, whenever it could 
be found, a leading and general attraction. No matter what 
the character of the auspices under which it was attained, they 
yearned for its associations, and gathered where they were to be 
enjoyed. A field-preaching, too, is a legitimate amusement; 
and, though not intended as such, formed a genuine excuse and 
apology for those who desired it less for its teaching than its 
talk—who sought it less for the word which it brought of God 
than that which it furnished from the world of man. It was a 
happy cover for those who, cultivating a human appetite, and 
conscious of a human weakness, were solicitous, in respecting 
and providing for these, not to offend the Creator in the pres¬ 
ence of his creatures. 

The woodman, as one of this class, was full of glee, and prom¬ 
ised Ralph an intellectual treat; for Parson Witter, the preacher 


FOREST PREACHING. 


141 


in reference, had more than once, as he was pleased to acknowl¬ 
edge and phrase it, won his ears, and softened and delighted 
his heart. He was popular in the village and its neighborhood, 
and where regular pastor was none, he might be considered to 
have made the strongest impression upon his almost primitive 
and certainly only in part civilized hearers. His merits of mind 
were held of rather an elevated order, and in standard far ovei 
topping the current run of his fellow-laborers in the same vine¬ 
yard ; while his own example was admitted, on all hands, to 
keep pace evenly with the precepts which he taught, and to be 
not unworthy of the faith which he professed. He was of the 
methodist persuasion—a sect which, among those who have so¬ 
journed in our southern and western forests, may confidently 
claim to have done more, and with motives as little questiona¬ 
ble as any, toward the spread of civilization, good habits, and 
a proper morality, with the great mass, than all other known 
sects put together. In a word, where men are remotely situa¬ 
ted from one another, and can not well afford to provide for an 
established place of worship and a regular pastor, their labors, 
valued at the lowest standard of human want, are inappreciable. 
We may add that never did laborers more deserve, yet less fre¬ 
quently receive, their hire, than the preachers of this particular 
faith. Humble in habit, moderate in desire, indefatigable in well¬ 
doing, pure in practice and intention, without pretence or ostenta¬ 
tion of any kind, they have gone freely and fearlessly into places 
the most remote and perilous, with an empty scrip, but with 
hearts filled to overflowing with love of God and good-will to men 
—preaching their doctrines with a simple and an unstudied 
eloquence, meetly characteristic of, and well adapted to, the old 
groves, deep primitive forests, and rudely-barren wilds, in which 
it is their wont most commonly to give it utterance: day after 
day, week after week, and month after month, finding them 
wayfarers still—never slumbering, never reposing from the toil 
they have engaged in, until they have fallen, almost literally, 
into the narrow grave by the wayside; their resting-places un¬ 
protected by any other mausoleum or shelter than those trees 
which have witnessed their devotions; their names and worth 
unmarked by any inscription; their memories, however, closely 
treasured up and carefully noted among human affections, and 


142 


GUY RIVERS. 


within the bosoms of those for whom their labors have been 
taken; while their reward, with a high ambition cherished well 
in their lives, is found only in that better abode where they are 
promised a cessation from their labors, but where their good 
works still follow them. This, without exaggeration, applica¬ 
ble to the profession at large, was particularly due to the indi¬ 
vidual member in question; and among the somewhat savage 
and always wild people whom he exhorted, Parson Witter was 
in many cases an object of sincere affection, and in all com¬ 
manded their respect. 

As might readily be expected, the whole village and as much 
of the surrounding country as could well be apprized of the 
affair were for the gathering; and Colleton, now scarcely feel¬ 
ing his late injuries, an early breakfast having been discussed, 
mounted his horse, and, under the guidance of his quondam 
friend Forrester, took the meandering path, or, as they phrase 
it in those parts, the old trace, to the place of meeting and 
prayer. 

The sight is something goodly, as well to the man of the 
world as to the man of God, to behold the fairly-decked array 
of people, drawn from a circuit of some ten or even fifteen miles 
in extent, on the sabbath, neatly dressed in their choicest ap¬ 
parel, men and women alike well mounted, and forming numer¬ 
ous processions and parties, from three to five or ten in each, 
bending from every direction to a given point, and assembling 
for the purposes of devotion. No chiming and chattering bells 
warn them of the day or of the duty—no regularly-constituted 
and well-salaried priest—no time-honored fabric, round which 
the old forefathers of the hamlet rest — reminding them regu¬ 
larly of the recurring sabbath, and the sweet assemblage of their 
fellows. We are to assume that the teacher is from their own 
impulses, and that the heart calls them with due solemnity to 
the festival of prayer. The preacher comes when the spirit 
prompts, or as circumstances may impel or permit. The news 
of his arrival passes from farm to farm, from house to house; 
placards announce it from the trees on the roadside, parallel, it 
may be, with an advertisement for strayed oxen, as we have 
seen it numberless times; and a day does not well elapse before 
it is in possession of everybody who might well avail them- 


FOREST PREACHING. 


143 


selves of its promise for the ensuing Sunday. The parson comes 
to the house of one of his auditory a night or two before; mes¬ 
sages and messengers are despatched to this and that neighbor, 
who despatch in turn to other neighbors. The negroes, de¬ 
lighting in a service and occasion of the kind—in which, by- 
the-way, they generally make the most conspicuous figures — 
though somewhat sluggish as couriers usually, are now not 
merely ready, hut actually swift of foot. The place of worship 
and the preacher are duly designated, and, by the time ap¬ 
pointed, as if the bell had tolled for their enlightenment, the 
country assembles at the stated place; and though the preacher 
may sometimes fail of attendance, the people never do. 

The spot appointed for the service of the day was an old 
grove of gigantic oaks, at a distance of some five or six miles 
from the village of Chestatee. The village itself had not been 
chosen, though having the convenience of a building, because of 
the liberal desire entertained by those acting on the occasion 
to afford to others living at an equal distance the same oppor¬ 
tunities without additional fatigue. The morning was a fine 
one, all gayety and sunshine—the road dry, elevated, and 
shaded luxuriantly with the overhanging foliage — the woods 
having the air of luxury and bloom which belonged to them at 
such a season, and the prospect, varied throughout by the 
wholesome undulations of valley and hill, which strongly mark ¬ 
ed the face of the country, greatly enlivened the ride to the eye 
of our young traveller. Everything contributed to impart a 
cheering influence to his senses; and with spirits and a frame 
newly braced and invigorated, he felt the bounding motion of 
the steed beneath him with an animal exultation, which took 
from his countenance that look of melancholy which had hith¬ 
erto clouded it. 

As our two friends proceeded on their way, successive and 
frequent groups crossed their route, or fell into it from other 
r oads—some capriciously taking the by-paths and Indian tracks 
through the woods, but all having the same object in view, and 
bending to the same point of assemblage. Here gayly pranced 
on a small cluster of the young of both sexes, laughing with 
unqualified glee at the jest of some of their companions—while 
in the rear, the more staid, the antiques and those rapidly be- 


144 


GUY RIVERS. 


coming so, with more measured gait, paced on in suite. On the 
road-side, striding on foot with step almost as rapid as that of 
the riders, came at intervals, and one after the other, the 
now trimly-dressed slaves of this or that plantation—all de¬ 
voutly bent on the place of meeting. Some of the whites car¬ 
ried their double-barrelled guns, some their rifles—it being 
deemed politic, at that time, to prepare for all contingencies, 
for the Indian or for the buck, as well as for the more direct 
object of the journey. 

At length, in a rapidly approaching group, a bright but timid 
glance met that of Colleton, and curbing in the impetuous ani¬ 
mal which he rode, in a few moments he found himself side by 
side with Miss Munro, who answered his prettiest introductory 
compliment with a smile and speech, uttered with a natural 
grace, and with the spirit of a dame of chivalry. 

“We have a like object to-day, I presume,” was, after a few 
complimentary sentences, the language of Ralph — “yet,” he 
continued, “ I fear me, that our several impulses at this time 
scarcely so far resemble each other as to make it not discredita¬ 
ble to yours to permit of the comparison.” 

“ I know not what may be the motive which impels you, sir 
to the course you take; but I will not pretend to urge that, 
even in my own thoughts, my route is any more the result of a 
settled conviction of its high necessity than it may be in yours, 
and the confession which I shame to make, is perhaps of itself, 
a beginning of that very kind of self-examination which we 
seek the church to awaken.” 

“ Alas, Miss Lucy, even this was not in my thought, so much 
are we men ignorant of or indifferent to those things which are 
thought of so much real importance. We seldom regard matters 
which are not of present enjoyment. The case is otherwise 
with you. There is far more truth, my own experience tells 
me, in the profession of your sex, whether in love or in religion, 
than in ours—and believe me, I mean this as nc idle compli¬ 
ment— I feel it to be true. The fact is, society itself puts you 
into a sphere and condition, which, taking from you much of 
your individuality, makes you less exclusive in your affections, 
and more single in their exercise. Your existence being merged 
in that of the stronger sex, you lose all that general selfishness 


FOREST PREACHING. 


145 


which is the strict result of our pursuits. Your impulses are 
narrowed to a single point or two, and there all your hopes, 
fears and desires, become concentrated. You acquire an intense 
susceptibility on a few subjects, by the loss of those manifold 
influences which belong to the out-door habit of mankind. 
With us, we have so many resources to fly to for relief, so many 
attractions to invite and seduce, so many resorts of luxury and 
life, that the affections become broken up in small, the heart is 
divided among the thousand; and, if one fragment suffers de¬ 
feat or denial, why, the pang scarcely touches, and is perhaps 
unfelt by all the rest. You have but few aims, few hopes. 
With these your very existence is bound up, and if you lose 
these you are yourselves lost. Thus I And that your sex, to a 
certain age, are creatures of love—disappointment invariably 
begets devotion — and either of these passions, for so they 
should be called, once brought into exercise, forbids and exclude^ 
every other.” 

“ Really, Mr. Colleton, you seem to have looked somewhat 
into the philosophy of this subject, and you may be right in the 
inferences to which you have come. On this point I may say 
nothing; but, do you conceive it altogether fair in you thus to 
compliment us at our own expense 1 You give us the credit 01 
truth, a high eulogiuni, I grant, in matters which relate to the 
the affections and the heart; but this is dine by robbing us en¬ 
tirely of mental independence. You are a kind of generous 
outlaw, a moral Robin Hood, you compel us to give up every¬ 
thing we possess, in order that you may have the somewhat 
equivocal merit of restoring back a small portion of what you 
take.” 

“ True, and this, I am afraid, Miss Lucy, however by the ad¬ 
mission I forfeit for my sex all reputation for chivalry, is after 
all the precise relationship between us. The very fact that the 
requisitions made by our sex produce immediate concession 
from yours, establishes the dependence of which you complain.” 

“You mistake me, sir. I complain not of the robbery- -far 
from it; for, if we do lose the possession of a commodity so 
valuable, we are at least freed from the responsibility of keep¬ 
ing it. The gentlemen, nowadays, seldom look to us for intel¬ 
lectual gladiatorship; they are content that our weakness 

7 


GUY RIVERS. 


146 

should shield us from the war. But, I conceive the reproach 
of our poverty to come unkindly from those who make us poor. 
It is of this, sir, that I complain.” 

“ You are just, and justly severe, Miss Munro; but what else 
have you to expect 1 ? Amazon-like, your sex, according to the 
quaint old story, sought the combat, and were not unwilling to 
abide the conditions of the warfare. The taunt is coupled with 
the triumph—the spoil follows the victory—and the captive is 
chained to the chariot-wheel of his conqueror, and must adorn 
the march of his superior by his own shame and sorrows. But, 
to be just to myself, permit me to say, that what you have 
considered a reproach was in truth designed as a compliment. 
I must regret that my modes of expression are so clumsy, that, 
in the utterance of my thought, the sentiment so changed its 
original shape as entirely to lose its identity. It certainly deserv¬ 
ed the graceful swordsmanship which foiled it so completely.” 

“ Nay, sir,” said the animated girl, “ you are bloodily-minded 
toward yourself, and it is matter of wonder to me how you sur¬ 
vive your own rebuke. So far from erring in clumsy phrase, I 
am constrained to admit that I thought, and think you, exces¬ 
sively adroit and happy in its management. It was only with 
a degree of perversity, intended solely to establish our inde¬ 
pendence of opinion, at least for the moment, that I chose to 
mistake and misapprehend you. Your remark, clothed in any 
other language, could scarcely put on a form more consistent 
with your meaning.” 

Ralph bowed at a compliment which had something equivocal 
in it, and this branch of the conversation having reached its 
legitimate close, a pause of some few moments succeeded, when 
they found themselves joined by other parties, until the cortege 
vas swollen in number to the goodly dimensions of a cavalcade 
or caravan designed for a pilgrimage. 

“ Report speaks favorably of the preacher we are to hear to¬ 
day, Miss Munro—have you ever heard him ?” was the inquiry 
of the youth. 

“ I have, sir, frequently, and have at all times been much 
pleased and sometimes affected by his preaching. There are 
few persons I would more desire to hear than himself— he does 
not offend your ears, nor assail your understanding by unmean 


FOREST PREACHING. 


147 


mg thunders. His matter and manner, alike, are distinguished 
by modest good sense, a gentle and dignified ease and spirit, 
and a pleasing earnestness in his object that is never offensive. 
I think, sir, you will like him.” 

“ Your opinion of him will certainly not diminish my atten¬ 
tion, I assure you, to what he says,” was the reply. 

At this moment the cavalcade was overtaken and joined b.y 
Rivers and Munro, together with several other villagers. Ralph 
now taking advantage of a suggestion of Forrester’s,previously 
made—who proposed, as there would be time enough, a circui¬ 
tous and pleasant ride through a neighboring valley — avoided 
the necessity of being in the company of one with respect to 
whom he had determined upon a course of the most jealous 
precaution. Turning their horses’ heads, therefore, in the pro¬ 
posed direction, the two left the procession, and saw no more of 
the party until their common arrival at the secluded grove — 
druidically conceived for the present purpose—in which the 
teacher of a faith as simple as it was pleasant was already pre¬ 
paring to address them. 

The venerable oaks—a goodly and thickly clustering assem¬ 
blage—forming a circle around, and midway upon a hill of 
gradual ascent, had left an opening in the centre, concealed 
from the eye except when fairly penetrated by the spectator. 
Their branches, in most part meeting above, afforded a roof less 
regular and gaudy, indeed, but far more grand, majestic, and 
we may add, becoming, for purposes like the present, than the 
dim and decorated cathedral, the workmanship of human hands. 
Its application to this use, at this time, recalled forcibly to the 
mind of the youth the forms and features of that primitive wor¬ 
ship, when the trees bent with gentle murmurs above the heads 
of the rapt worshippers, and a visible Deity dwelt in the 
shadowed valleys, and whispered an auspicious acceptance f 
their devotions in every breeze. He could not help acknowl¬ 
edging, as, indeed, must all who have ever been under the 
influence of such a scene, that in this, more properly and per¬ 
fectly than in any other temple, may the spirit of man recognise 
and hold familiar and free converse with the spirit of his Crea 
tor. Here, indeed, without much effort of the imagination, 
might be beheld the present God—the trees, hills and vales. 


148 


GUY RIVERS. 


the wild flower and the murmuring water, all the work of his 
hands, attesting his power, keeping their purpose, and obeying, 
without scruple, the order of those seasons, for the sphere and 
operation of which he originally designed them. They were 
mute lessoners, and the example which, in the progress of their 
existence, year after year, they regularly exhibited, might well 
persuade the more responsible representative of the same power 
the propriety of a like obedience. 

A few fallen trees, trimmed of their branches and touched 
with the adze, ranging at convenient distances under the boughs 
of those along with which they had lately stood up in proud 
equality, furnished seats for the now rapidly-gathering assem¬ 
blage. A rough stage, composed of logs, rudely hewn and 
crossing each other at right angles, covered, when at a height 
of sufficient elevation, formed the pulpit from which the preacher 
was to exhort. A chair, brought from some cottage in the 
neighborhood, surmounted the stage. This was all that art 
had done to accommodate nature to the purposes of man. 

In the body of the wood immediately adjacent, fastened to 
the overhanging branches, were the goodly steeds of the com¬ 
pany ; forming, in themselves, to the unaccustomed and inex¬ 
perienced eye, a grouping the most curious. Some, more docile 
than the rest, were permitted to rove at large, cropping the 
young herbage and tender grass; occasionally, it is true, during 
the service, overleaping their limits in a literal sense; neighing, 
whinnying and kicking up their heels to the manifest confusion 
of the pious and the discomfiture of the preacher. 

The hour at length arrived. The audience was numerous if 
not select. All persuasions—for even in that remote region 
sectarianism had done much toward banishing religion — as¬ 
sembled promiscuously together and without show of discord, 
excepting that here and there a high stickler for church aris¬ 
tocracy, in a better coat than his neighbor, thrust him aside; 
or, in another and not less offensive form of pride, in the exter¬ 
nals of humility and rotten with innate malignity, groaned 
audibly through his clenched teeth; and with shut eyes and 
crossed hands, as in prayer, sought to pass a practical rebuke 
upon the less devout exhibitions of those around him. The 
cant and the clatter, as it prevails in the crowded mart, were 


FOREST PREACHING. 


149 


here in miniature; and Charity would have needed something 
more than a Kamschatka covering to have shut out from her 
eyes the enormous hypocrisy of many among the clamorous 
professors of that faith of which they felt little and knew less. 
If she shut her eyes to the sight, their groans were in her ears; 
and if she turned away, they took her by the elbow, and called 
her a backslider herself. Forrester whispered in the ears of 
Ralph, as his eye encountered the form of Miss Munro, who sat 
primly amid a flock of venerables — 

“ Doesn’t she talk like a book ] Ah, she’s a smart, sweet 
girl; it’s a pity there’s no better chance for her than Guy 
Rivers. But where’s he—the rascal ? Do you know I nearly 
got my fingers on his throat last night. I felt deusedly like it, 
I tell you.” 

“ Why, what did he to you ?” 

“ Answered me with such impudence ! I took him for the 
pedler in the dark, and thought I had got a prize; it wasn’t the 
pedler, but something worse—for in my eyes he’s no better 
than a polecat.” 

But, the preacher had risen in his place, and all was silence 
and attention. We need scarcely seek to describe him. His 
appearance was that of a very common man; and the anticipa¬ 
tions of Colleton, as he was one of those persons apt to be taken 
by appearances, suffered something like rebuke. His figure was 
diminutive and insignificant; his shoulders were round, and his 
movements excessively awkward; his face was thin and sallow; 
his eyes dull and inexpressive, and too small seemingly for com¬ 
mand. A too-frequent habit of closing them in prayer contrib¬ 
uted, no doubt, greatly to this appearance. A redeeming ex¬ 
pression in the high forehead, conically rising, and the strong 
character exhibited in his nose, neutralized in some sort the 
generally-unattractive outline. His hair, which was of a deep 
black, was extremely coarse, and closely cropped: it gave to 
his look that general expression which associated him at once 
in the mind of Ralph, whose reading in those matters was fresh, 
with the commonwealth history of England — with the puritans, 
and those diseased fanatics of the Cromwell dynasty, not omit¬ 
ting that p? )found hypocrite himself. What, then, was the sur¬ 
prise of the you h, having such impressions, to hear a discourse 


150 


GUY RIVERS. 


unassuming in its dictates, mild in its requisitions, and of a style 
and temper the most soothing and persuasive! 

The devotions commenced with a hymn, two lines of which, 
at a time, having been read and repeated by the preacher, fur¬ 
nished a guide to the congregation; the female portion of which 
generally united to sing, and in a style the sweetness of which 
was doubly effective from the utter absence of all ornament in 
the music. The strains were just such as the old shepherds, 
out among the hills, tending their charges, might have been 
heard to pour forth, almost unconsciously, to that God who 
sometimes condescended to walk along with them. After this 
was over, the preacher rose, and read, with a voice as clear as 
unaffected, the twenty-third psalm of David, the images of which 
are borrowed chiefly from the life in the wilderness, and were 
therefore not unsuited to the ears of those to whom it was now 
addressed. Without proposing any one portion of this peiform- 
ance as a text or subject of commentary, and without seeking, 
as is quite too frequently the case with small teachers, to ex¬ 
plain doubtful passages of little meaning and no importance, he 
delivered a discourse, in which he simply dilated upon and car¬ 
ried out, for the benefit of those about him, and with a direct 
reference to the case of all of them, those beautiful portraits of 
a good shepherd and guardian God which the production which 
he read furnished to his hands. He spoke of the dependence 
of the creature — instanced, as it is daily, by a thousand wants 
and exigencies, for which, unless by the care and under the 
countenance of Providence, he could never of himself provide. 
He narrated the dangers of the forest—imaging by this figure 
the mazes and mysteries of life—the difficulty, nay, the almost 
utter impossibility, unless by His sanction, of procuring suste¬ 
nance, and of counteracting those innumerable incidents by fell 
and flood, which, in a single moment, defeat the cares of the 
hunter and the husbandman — setting at naught his industry, 
destroying his fields and cattle, blighting his crops, and tearing 
up with the wing of the hurricane even the cottage which gives 
shelter to his little ones. He awelt largely and long upon those 
numberless and sudden events in the progress of life and human 
circumstance, over which, as they could neither be foreseen nor 
combated with by man, he had no control; and appealed for 


FOREST PREACHING. 


151 


him to the Great Shepherd, who alone could do both. Having 
shown the necessity of such an appeal and reference, he next 
proceeded to describe the gracious willingness which had at all 
times been manifested by the Creator to extend the required 
protection. He adverted to the fortunes of all the patriarchs 
in support of this position; and, singling out innumerable in¬ 
stances of this description, confidently assured them, in turn, 
from these examples, that the same Shepherd was not unwilling 
to provide for them in like manner. Under his protection, he 
assured them, “ they should not want.” He dilated at length, 
and with a graceful dexterity, upon the truths—the simple and 
mere truths of God’s providence, and the history of his people 
—which David had embodied in the beautiful psalm which he 
had read them. It was poetry, indeed—sweet poetry—but it 
was the poetry of truth and not of fiction. Did not history sus¬ 
tain its every particular ? Had not the Shepherd made them to 
lie down in green pastures—had he not led them beside the 
still waters—restored he not their souls—did he not lead them, 
for his name’s sake, in the paths of righteousness — and though 
at length they walked through the valley where Death had 
cast his never-departing shadow, was he not with them still, 
keeping them even from the fear of evil ? He furnished them 
with the rod and staff; he prepared the repast for them, even 
in the presence of their enemies; he anointed their heads with 
oil, and blessed them with quiet and abundance, until the cup 
of their prosperity was running over—until they even ceased 
to doubt that goodness and mercy should follow them all the 
days of their life; and, with a proper consciousness of the 
source whence this great good had arisen, they determined, 
with the spirit not less of wise than of worthy men, to follow 
his guidance, and thus dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. 
Such did the old man describe the fortunes of the old patriarchs 
to have been; and such, having first entered into like obliga¬ 
tions, pursuing them with the same fond fixedness of purpose, 
did he promise should be the fortunes of all who then listened 
to bis voice. 

As he proceeded to his peroration, he grew warmed with the 
broad and boundless subject before him, and his declamation 
became alike bold and beautiful. All eyes were fixed upon 


152 


GUY RIVERS. 


liim, and not a whisper from the still-murmuring woods which 
girded them in was perceptible to the senses of that pleased 
and listening assembly. The services of the morning were 
closed by a paraphrase, in part, of the psalm from which his 
discourse had been drawn ; and as this performance, in its pres¬ 
ent shape, is not to be found, we believe, in any of the books 
devoted to such purposes, it is but fair to conclude that the old 
man — not unwilling, in his profession, to employ every engine 
for the removal of all stubbornness from the hearts of those he 
addressed — sometimes invoked Poetry to smile upon his devo¬ 
tions, and wing his aspirations for the desired flight. It was 
sung by the congregation, in like manner with the former—the 
preacher reading two lines at a time, after having first gone 
through the perusal aloud of the piece entire. With the recog¬ 
nised privilege of the romancer, who is supposed to have a wiz¬ 
ard control over men, events, and things alike, we are enabled 
to preserve the paraphrase here : — 

“SHEPHERD’S HYMN 

“ Oh, when I rove the desert waste, and ’neath the hot sun pant, 

The Lord shall be my shepherd then — he will not let me want — 

He’ll lead me where the pastures are of soft and shady green. 

And where the gentle waters rove the quiet hills between. 

“ And when the savage shall pursue, and in his grasp 1 sink, 

He will prepare the feast for me, and bring the cooling drink — 

And save me harmless from his hands, and strengthen me in toil, 

And bless my home and cottage-lands, and crown my head with oil. 

“With such a Shepherd to protect — to guide and guard me still, 

And bless my heart with every good, and keep from every ill — 

Surely I shall not turn aside, and scorn his kindly care, 

But keep the path he points me out, and dwell for ever there.” 

The service had not yet been concluded—the last parting 
offices of prayer and benediction had yet to be performed— 
when a boy, about fourteen years of age, rushed precipitately 
into the assembly. His clothes were torn and bloody, and he 
was smeared with dirt from head to foot. He spoke, but his 
words were half intelligible only, and comprehended by but 
one or two of the persons around him. Munro immediately 


FOREST PREACHING. 153 

rose and carried liim out. He was followed by Rivers, who 
had been sitting beside him. 

The interruption silenced everything like prayer; there was 
no further attention for the preacher; and accordingly a most 
admired disorder overspread the audience. One after another 
rose and left the area, and those not the first to withdraw 
followed in rapid succession; until, under the influence of that 
wild stimulant, curiosity, the preacher soon found himself ut¬ 
terly unattended, except by the female portion of his auditory. 
These, too, or rather the main body of them at least, were now 
only present in a purely physical sense; for, with the true char¬ 
acteristic of the sex, their minds were busily employed in the 
wilderness of reflection which this movement among the men 
had necessarily inspired. 

Ralph Colleton, however, with praiseworthy decorum, lin¬ 
gered to the last — his companion Forrester, under the influence 
of a whisper from one over his shoulder, having been among the 
fl.rst to retire. He, too, could not in the end avoid the general 
disposition, and at length took his way to the animated and 
earnest knot which he saw assembled in the shade of the ad¬ 
joining thicket, busied in the discussion of some concern of 
more than common interest. In his departure from the one 
gathering to the other, he caught a glance from the eye of Lucy 
Munro, which had in it so much of warning, mingled at the 
same time with an expression of so much interest, that he half 
stopped in his progress, and, but for the seeming indecision and 
awkwardness of such a proceeding, would have returned—the 
more particularly, indeed, when, encountering her gaze with a 
corresponding fixedness — though her cheek grew to crimson 
with the blush that overspread it—her glance was not yet with¬ 
drawn. He felt that her look was full of caution, and in¬ 
wardly determined upon due circumspection. The cause of 
interruption may as well be reserved for the next chapter. 


154 


GUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XII. 

TROUBLE AMONG T.iE TRESPASSERS. 

Ralph now made liis way into the thick of the crowd, curi¬ 
ous to ascertain tlie source of so much disquiet and tumult as 
now began to manifest itself among them. The words of peace 
which they had just heard seemed to have availed them hut 
little, for every brow was blackened, and every tongue tipped 
with oaths and execrations. His appearance attracted no atten¬ 
tion, if, indeed, it were not entirely unobserved. The topic in 
hand was of an interest quite too fresh and absorbing to permit 
of a single glance toward any other of more doubtful impor¬ 
tance, and it was only after much delay that he was enabled at 
length to get the least insight into the mystery. All were 
speakers, counsellors, orators — old and young, big and little, 
illustrious and obscure — all but the legitimate and legal coun¬ 
sellor Pippin, who, to the surprise of the youth, was to be seen 
galloping at the uttermost stretch of his horse’s legs toward the 
quiet of his own abode. The lawyer was known to have a 
particular care of number one, and such a movement excited no 
remark in any of the assembly. There was danger at hand, 
and he knew his value—besides, there might he business for 
the sessions, and he valued too highly the advantages, in a jury- 
case, of a clean conscience, not to be solicitous to keep his honor 
clear of any art or pail in criminal matters, saving only such 
connection as might come professionally. 

That the lawyer was not without reason for his precaution, 
Ralph had soon abundant testimony himself. Arms and the 
munitions of war, as if by magic, had been rapidly collected. 
Some of the party, it is true, had made their appearance at 
the place of prayer with rifles and fowlirgpieces, a practice 


TROUBLE AMONG THE TRESPASSERS. 


155 


which occasioned no surprise. But the managers of the pres¬ 
ent movement had seemingly furnished all hands with weapons, 
offensive and defensive, of one kind or another. Some were 
caparisoned with pistols, cutlasses, and knives; and, not to 
speak of pickaxes and clubs, the array was sufficiently formida¬ 
ble. The attitude of all parties was warlike in the extreme, 
and the speeches of those who, from time to time, condescended 
to please themselves by haranguing their neighbors, teemed with 
nothing but strife and wounds, fight and furious performance. 

The matter, as we have already remarked, was not made out 
by the youth without considerable difficulty. He obtained, 
however, some particulars from the various speakers, which, 
taken in connection with the broken and incoherent sentences 
of Forrester, who dashed into speech at intervals with some¬ 
thing of the fury of a wounded panther in a cane-brake, con¬ 
tributed at length to his full enlightenment. 

“ Matter enough—matter enough ! and you will think so too 
—to be robbed of our findings by a parcel of blasted ’coons, 
that haven’t soul enough to keep them freezing. Why, this is 
the matter, you must know: only last week, we miners of 
Tracy’s diggings struck upon a fine heap of the good stuff, and 
have been gathering gold pretty freely ever since. All the boys 
have been doing well at it; better than they ever did before — 
and even Munro there, and Rivers, who have never been very 
fond of work, neither of them, have been pretty busy ever since; 
for, as I tell you, we were making a sight of money, all of us. 
Well now, somehow or other, our good luck got to the ears of 
George Dexter and his men, who have been at work for some 
time past upon old Johnson’s diggings about fourteen miles up 
on the Sokee river. They could never make much out of the 
place, I know; for what it had good in it was pretty much 
cleaned out of it when I was there, and I know it can’t get bet¬ 
ter, seeing that gold is not like trees, to grow out every year. 
Well, as I say, George Dexter, who would just as lief do wrong 
as right, and a great deal rather, got tired, as well as all his 
boys, of working for the fun of the thing only; and so, hearing 
as I say of our good luck, what did they do but last night come 
quietly down upon our trace, and when Jones, the old man we 
kept there as a kind of safeguard, tried to stop ’em, they shot 


156 


GUY RIVERS. 


him through the body as if he had been a pig. His son goi 
away when his father was shot, though they did try to shoot 
him too, and come post haste to tell us of the transaction. 
There stands the lad, his clothes all bloody and ragged. He’s 
had a good run of it through the bushes, I reckon.” 

“ And they are now in possession of your lands V* 

“ Every fellow of ’em, holding on with gun in hand, and swear¬ 
ing to be the death of us, if we try for our own. But we’ll show 
them what’s what, or I can’t fling a hatchet or aim a rifle. This, 
now, Master Colleton, is the long and the short of the matter.” 

“ And what do you propose to do ?” asked Ralph, of hie in¬ 
formant. 

“ Why, what should we do, do you think, but find out who 
the best men are, and put them in possession. There’s not a 
two-legged creature among us that won’t be willing to try that 
question, any how, and at any time, but more particularly now, 
when everything depends upon it.” 

“And when do you move, Forrester'?” 

“ Now, directly—this very minute. The boys have just sent 
for some more powder, and are putting things in readiness for a 
brush.” 

The resolution of Ralph was at once adopted. He had noth¬ 
ing, it is true, to do with the matter—no interest at stake, and 
certainly no sympathy with the lawless men who went forth to 
fight for a property, to which they had not a jot more of right 
than had those who usurped it from them. But here was a 
scene—here was incident, excitement—and with all the enthu¬ 
siasm of the southern temper, and with that uncalculating 
warmth which so much distinguishes it, he determined, without 
much regard to the merits of the question, to go along with the 
party. 

“ I’ll ride with you, Forrester, and see Avhat’s going on.” 

tf And stand up with us, ’squire, and join in the scuffle ?” in¬ 
quired his companion. 

“ I say not that, Forrester. I have no concern in this matter, 
and so long as I am let alone myself, I see no reason for taking 
part in an affair, of the merits of which I am almost entirely 
ignorant.” 

“You will take your arms with you, I suppose. You can 


TROUBLE AMONG THE TRESPASSERS. 157 

lend them to those who fight, though you make no use of them 
yourself.” 

“Yes—I never go without arms in travelling, hut I shall 
not lend them. A man should no more lend his arms than he 
should lend his coat. Every man should have his own weap¬ 
ons.” 

“Yes; hut, ’squire, if you go along with us, you may be 
brought into the scrape. The other party may choose to con¬ 
sider you one of us.” 

“ It is for this reason, not less than others, that I would carry 
and not lend my arms.” 

“Well, ’squire, you might lend them to some of us, and I 
would answer for them. It’s true, as you say, that every man 
should have his own weapons; but some among us, you see, 
lia’n’t got ’em, and it’s for that we’ve been waiting. But come, 
it’s time to start; the boys are beginning to he in motion; and 
here come Munro and that skunk Rivers. I reckon Munro 
will have the command, for he’s thought to he the most cunning 
among us.” 

The party was now ready for departure, when a new inter¬ 
ruption was experienced. The duties of the pastor were yet to 
begin, and, accordingly, sallying forth at the head of his re¬ 
maining congregation, Parson Witter placed himself in front of 
the seceders. It is unnecessary that we should state his pur¬ 
pose ; it is as little necessary that we should say that it was un¬ 
availing. Men of the kind of whom we speak, though perhaps 
not insensible to some of the holder virtues, have no sympathy 
or love for a faith which teaches forbearance under wrong and 
insult, and meekness under blows. If they did not utterly 
laugh in his face, therefore, at his exhortations, it was because, 
at the very first, they had to a man turned their backs upon 
him, and were now generally mounted. Following the common 
lead, Ralph approached the group where stood his fair friend 
of the morning; and acknowledged, in an under-tone, to herself, 
the correctness of her opinion in regard to the merits of the 
sermon. She did not reply to the observation, but seeing his 
hand upon the bridle, asked hurriedly — 

“Do you, sir—does Mr. Colleton go with this party?” 

“I do; the circumstances are all so novel, and I am curious 


158 


GUY RIVERS. 


to see as much of manners and events foreign to those to which 
I have been accustomed, as may he practicable.” 

“ I fear, sir, that those which you may behold on occasions 
such as these, and in this country, though they may enlighten 
you, will do little toward your gratification. You have friends, 
sir, who might not be willing that you should indulge in un¬ 
necessary exposure, for the satisfaction of a curiosity so 
unpromising.” 

Her manner was dignified, and though as she spoke a some¬ 
thing of rebuke came mingled with the caution which her 
language conveyed, yet there was evidently such an interest in 
his fortunes embodied in what she said, that the listener whom 
she addressed could not feel hurt at the words themselves, or 
the accompanying expression. 

“ I shall be a mere looker-on, Miss Munro, and dare to disre¬ 
gard the caution which you bestow, though duly sensible of the 
kindness which gives it utterance. Perhaps, too, I may be of 
service in the way of peace-making. 1 have neither interest 
uor wish which could prompt me to any other course.” 

“ There is every need for caution among young travellers, 
sir; and though no astrologer, it seems to me your planet is full 
of unfavorable auguries. If you will be headstrong, see that 
you have your eyes about you. You have need of them both.” 

This was all in by-play. The group had passed on, and a 
single nod of the head and a doubtful smile, on her part, con¬ 
cluded the brief dialogue we have just narrated. The youth 
was puzzled to understand the significant warnings, which, from 
time to time, she had given him. He felt unconscious of any 
foe in particular, and though at that time sojourning with a 
people in whom he could repose but little confidence, he yet 
saw no reason to apprehend any danger. If her manner and 
words had reference simply to the general lawlessness of the 
settlement, the precaution evidently conveyed no compliment to 
his own capacities for observation. Whatever might have been 
her motive, the youth felt its kindness; and she rose not a little 
in his esteem, when he reflected with how much dignity and 
ladylike propriety she had given, to a comparative stranger, the 
counsel which she evidently thought necessary to his well-being. 
With a free rein he soon overtook Forrester, and with him 


TROUBLE AMONG THE TRESPASSERS. 159 

took his place in the rear of the now rapidly-advancing caval¬ 
cade. 

As Forrester had conjectured, the command of the party, 
such as it was, was assigned to the landlord. There might have 
been something like forty or fifty men in all, the better portion 
of them mounted and well armed—some few on foot struggling 
to keep pace with the riders — all in high spirits, and indignant 
at the invasion of what they considered their own. These, 
however, were not all hunters of the precious metal, and many 
of them, indeed, as the reader has by this time readily con¬ 
jectured, carried on a business of very mixed complexion. 
The whole village—blacksmith, grocer, baker, and clothier 
included, turned out en masse , upon the occasion; for, with an 
indisputable position in political economy, deriving their gains 
directly or indirectly from this pursuit, the cause was, in fact, a 
cause in common. 

The scene of operations, in view of which they had now 
come, had to the eye all the appearance of a moderate encamp¬ 
ment. The intruding force had done the business completely. 
They had made a full transfer, from their old to their new 
quarters, of bag and baggage; and had possessed themselves 
of all the log-houses in and about the disputed region. Their 
fires were in full heat, to use the frontier phrase, and the water 
was hissing in their kettles, and the dry thorns crackling under 
the pot. Never had usurpers made themselves more perfectly 
at home; and the rage of the old incumbents was, of course, 
duly heightened at a prospect of so much ease and felicity en¬ 
joyed at their expense. 

The enemy were about equal in point of number with those. 
whom they had so rudely dispossessed. They had, however, 
in addition to their disposable force, their entire assemblage of 
wives, children, slaves, and dependants, cattle and horses, 
enough, as Forrester bitterly remarked, “ to breed a famine in 
the land.” They had evidently settled themselves for life , and 
the ousted party, conscious of the fact, prepared for the dernier 
resort. Everything on the part of the usurpers indicated a 
perfect state of preparedness for an issue which they never 
doubted would be made; and all the useless baggage, inter¬ 
spersed freely with rocks and fallen trees, had been well-em 


160 


GUY RIVERS. 


ployed in increasing tlie strength of a position for which, such 
an object considered, nature had already done much. The 
defences, as they now stood, precluded all chance of success 
from an attack by mounted men, unless the force so employed 
were overwhelming. The defenders stood ready at their posts, 
partly under cover, and so arrayed as easily to put themselves 
so, and were armed in very nearly the same manner with the 
assailing party. In this guise of formidable defence, they 
waited patiently the onset. 

There was a brief pause after their arrival, on the part of 
the invading force, which was employed principally in consul¬ 
tation as to the proper mode of procedure, and in examination 
of the ground. Their plan of attack, depending altogether 
upon the nature of circumstances yet to be seen, had not been 
deliberated upon before. The consultation lasted not long, 
however, and no man’s patience was too severely tried. Hav¬ 
ing deputed the command to the landlord, they left the matter 
pretty much to that person; nor was their choice unhappy. 

Munro had been a partisan well-taught in Indian warfare, 
and it was said of him, that he knew quite as well how to prac¬ 
tise all their subtleties as themselves. The first object with 
him, therefore, in accordance with his reputation, was to devise 
some plot, by which not only to destroy the inequality of 
chances between the party assailing and that defending a post 
now almost impregnable, but to draw th«e latter entirely out of 
their defences. Still, it was deemed but courteous, or prudent 
at least, to see what could he done in the way of negotiation; 
and their leader, with a white handkerchief attached to a 
young sapling, hewn down for the purpose, by way of apology 
for a flag, approached the besieged, and in front of his men 
demanded a conference with the usurping chief. 

The demand was readily and at once answered by the ap¬ 
pearance of the already named George Dexter; a man who, 
with little sagacity and but moderate cunning, had yet acquired 
a lead and notoriety among his fellows, even in that wild region, 
simply from the reckless boldness and fierce impetuosity of his 
character. It is useless to describe such a person. He was a 
ruffian—in look and manner, ruffianly—huge of frame, strong 
ind agile o 4 limb, and steeled against all fear, simply from a 


TROUBLE AMONG THE TRESPASSERS. 


161 


brute unconsciousness of all danger. There was little of pre¬ 
liminary matter in this conference. Each knew his man, and 
the business in hand. All was direct, therefore, and to the 
point. Words were not to be wasted without corresponding 
fruits, though the colloquy began, on the part of Munro, in 
terms of the most accredited courtesy. 

“Well, George Dexter, a pleasant morning to you in your 
new accommodations. I see you have learned to make yourself 
perfectly at home when you visit your neighbors.” 

“Why, thank you, Wat—I generally do, I reckon, as you 
know of old. It’s not now, I’m inclined to think, that you’re 
to learn the ways of George Dexter. He’s a man, you see, 
Wat, that never has two ways about him.” 

“ That’s true, friend George, I must say that for you, were I 
to have to put it on your tombstone.” 

“It’s a long ride to the Atlantic, Wat; and the time is some¬ 
thing off yet, I reckon, when my friends will be after measuring 
me for a six-foot accommodation. But, look you, Wat, why 
are all your family here? — I did think, when I first saw them 
on the trail, some with their twisted and some with smooth 
bores, tomahawks, and scalping-knives, that they took us for 
Indians. If you hadn’t come forward now, civilly, I should 
have been for giving your boys some mutton-chops, by way of 
a cold cut.” 

“ Well, George, you may do that yet, old fellow, for here we 
have all come to take our Sunday dinner. You are not in the 
notion that we shall let you take possession here so easily, 
without even sending us word, and paying us no rent—no com¬ 
pensation V* 

“Why, no, Wat—I knew you and your boys too well for 
that. I did look, you see, to have a bit of a brush, and have 
made some few preparations to receive you with warmth and 
open arms,” was the response of Dexter, pointing as he spoke 
to the well-guarded condition of his intrenchments, and to his 
armed men, who were now thickly clustering about him. 

Munro saw plainly that this was no idle boast, and that the 
disposition of his enemy’s force, without some stratagem, set at 
defiance any attack under present circumstances. Still he did 
not despair, and taught in Indian warfare, such a position was 


162 


GUY RIVERS. 


the very one to bring out his energies and abilities. Falling 
back for a moment, he uttered a few words in the ear of one of 
his party, who withdrew unobserved from his companions, while 
he returned to the parley. 

“Well, George, I see, as you have said, that you have made 
some preparations to receive us, but they are not the prepar¬ 
ations that I like exactly, nor such as I think we altogether de¬ 
serve.” 

“ That may be, Wat — and I can’t help it. If you will invite 
yourselves to dinner, you must be content with what I put before 
you.” 

“ It is not a smart speech, Dexter, that will give you free walk 
on the high road; and something is to be said about this pro¬ 
ceeding of yours, which, you must allow, is clearly in the teeth 
of all the practices prevailing among the people of the frontier. 
At the beginning, and before any of us knew the value of this 
or that spot, you chose your ground, and we chose ours. If you 
leave yours or we ours, then either of us may take possession 
—not without. Is not this the custom V ’ 

“ I tell you what, Munro, I have not lived so long in the woods 
to listen to wind-guns, and if such is the kind of argument you 
bring us, your dumpy lawyer—what do you call him?—little 
Pippin, ought to have been head of your party. He will do it 
all day long—I’ve heard him myself, at the sessions, from mid¬ 
day till clean dark, and after all he said nothing.” 

“ If you mean to persuade yourself, George, that we shall do 
no more than talk for our lands and improvements, you are like 
ly to suffer something for your mistake.” 

“ Your ‘ lands and improvements !’ Well, now, I like that— 
that’s very good, and just like you. Now, Wat, not to put you 
to too much trouble, I’d like to look a little into your title to 
the lands; as to the improvements, they’re at your service 
whenever you think proper to send for them. There’s the old 
lumber-house—there’s the squatter’s house—there’s where the 
cow keeps, and there’s the hogsty, and half a dozen more, all 
of which you’re quite welcome to. I’m sure none of you want 
’em, boys—do you?” 

A hearty laugh, and cries in the negative, followed this some¬ 
what technical retort and reply of the speaker—since, in tres* 


TROUBLE AMONG THE TRESPASSERS. 163 

pass, according to the received forms of law, the first duty of 
the plaintiff is to establish his own title. 

“ Then, George, you are absolutely bent on having us show 
our title ? You won’t deliver up peaceably, and do justice V 9 

“Can’t think of such a thing—we find the quarters here 
quite too comfortable, and have come too far to be in a hurry to 
return. We are tired, too, Wat; and it’s not civil in you to 
make such a request. When you can say ‘ must’ to us, we shall 
hear you, but not till then; so, my old fellow, if you he not sat¬ 
isfied, why, the sooner we come to short sixes the better,” was 
the response of the desperado. 

The indifferent composure with which he uttered a response 
which was in fact the signal for bloodshed, not less than the 
savage ferocity of his preparations generally, amply sustained 
his pretension to this appellative. Munro knew his man too 
well not to perceive that to this “ fashion must they come at 
lastand simply assuring Dexter that he would submit his de¬ 
cision to his followers, he retired back upon the anxious and in¬ 
dignant party, who had heard a portion, and now eagerly and 
angrily listened to the rest of the detail. 

Having gone over the matter, he proceeded to his arrange¬ 
ments for the attack with all the coolness, and certainly much 
of the conduct of a veteran. In many respects he truly de¬ 
served the character of one; his courage was unquestionable, 
and aroused; though he still preserved his coolness, even when 
coupled with the vindictive ferocity of the savage. His expe¬ 
rience in all the modes of warfare, commonly known to the 
white man and Indian alike, in the woods, was complete; 
everything, indeed, eminently fitted and prepared him for the 
duties which, by common consent, had been devolved upon him. 
He now called them around him, under a clump of trees and 
brushwood which concealed them from sight, and thus ad¬ 
dressed them, in a style and language graduated to their pur¬ 
suits and understandings:— 

“ And now, my fine fellows, you see it is just as I told you all 
along. You will have to fight for it, and with no half spirit. 
You must just use all your strength and skill in it, and a little 
cunning besides. We have to deal with a man who would just 
as lief fight as eat; indeed, he prefers it. As he says himself. 


164 


GUY RIVERS. 


there’s no two ways about him. He will come to the scratch 
himself, and make everybody else do so. So, then, you see 
what’s before you. It’s no child’s play. They count more men 
than we — not to speak of their entrenchments and shelter. We 
must dislodge them if we can; and to begin, I have a small con¬ 
trivance in my head which may do some good. I want two 
from among you to go upon a nice business. I must have men 
quick of foot, keen of sight, and cunning as a black-snake; and 
they mustn’t be afraid of a knock on the head either. Shall I 
have my men ?” 

There was no difficulty in this, and the leader was soon pro¬ 
vided. He selected two from among the applicants for this dis¬ 
tinction, upon whose capacities he thought he could best rely, 
and led them away from the party into the recess of the wood, 
where he gave them their directions, and then returned to the 
main body. He now proceeded to the division, into small par¬ 
ties, of his whole force—placing them under guides rather than 
leaders, and reserving to himself the instruction and command 
of the whole. There was still something to be done, and con¬ 
ceiving this to be a good opportunity for employing a test, al¬ 
ready determined upon, he approached Ralph Colleton, who 
surveyed the whole affair with intense curiosity. 

“ And now, young ’squire, you see what we’re driving at, and 
as our present business wo’nt permit of neutrality, let us hear 
on which side you stand. Are you for us or against us V* 

The question was one rather of command than solicitation, 
but the manner of the speaker was sufficiently deferential. 

“ I see not why you should ask the question, sir. I have no 
concern in your controversy — I know not its merits, and pro¬ 
pose simply to content myself with the position of a spectator 
I presume there is nothing offensive in such a station.” 

“There may be, sir; and you know that when people’s 
blood’s up, they don’t stand on trifles. They are not quick to 
discriminate between foes and neutrals; and, to speak the truth, 
we are apt, in this part of the country, to look upon the two, at 
such moments, as the same. You will judge, therefore, for your¬ 
self, of the risk you run.” 

“ I always do, Mr. Munro,” said the youth. “ I can not see 
that the risk is very considerable at this moment, for I am at a 


TROUBLE AMONG THE TRESPASSERS. 


165 


loss to perceive the policy of your making an enemy of me, 
when you have already a sufficient number to contend with in 
yonder barricade. Should your men, in their folly, determine 
to do so, I am not unprepared, and I think not unwilling, to 
defend myself.” 

“Ay, ay — I forgot, sir, you are from Carolina, where they 
make nothing of swallowing Uncle Sam for a lunch. It is very 
well, sir; you take your risk, and will abide the consequences 
though I look not to find you when the fray begins.” 

“ You shall not provoke me, sir, by your sneer; and may as¬ 
sure yourself, if it will satisfy you, that though I will not fight 
for you, I shall have no scruple of putting a bullet through the 
scull of the first ruffian who gives me the least occasion to do so.” 

The youth spoke indignantly, but the landlord appeared not 
to regard the retort. Turning to the troop, which had been 
decorously attentive, he bade them follow, saying 

“ Come on, boys — we shall have to do without the stranger ; 
lie does not fight, it seems, for the fun of the thing. If Pippin 
was here, doubtless, we should have arguments enough from the 
pair to keep them in whole bones, at least, if nobody else.” 

A laugh of bitter scorn followed the remark of Munro, as ths 
party went on its way. 

Though inwardly assured of the propriety of his course, 
Ralph could not help biting his lip with the mortification he 
felt from this circumstance, and which he was compelled to sup¬ 
press ; and we hazard nothing in the assertion when we say, 
that, had his sympathies been at all enlisted with the assailing 
party, the sarcasm of its leader would have hurried him into the 
very first rank of attack. As it was, such was its influence upon 
him, that, giving spur to his steed, he advanced to a position 
which, while it afforded him a clear survey of the whole field, 
exposed his person not a little to the shot of either party, as 
well from without as from within the beleaguered district. 

The invading force soon commenced the affair. They came 
to the attack after the manner of the Indians. The nature of 
forest-life, and its necessities, of itself teaches this mode of war¬ 
fare. Each man took his tree, his bush, or stuipp, approaching 
from cover to cover until within rifle-reach, then patiently wait¬ 
ing until an exposed head, a side or shoulder, leg or arm, gave 


166 


GUY RIVERS. 


an opportunity for the exercise of his skill in marksmanship 
To the keen-sighted and quick, rather than to the strong, is the 
victory; and it will not he wondered at, if, educated thus in 
daily adventure, the hunter is enabled to detect the slightest 
and most transient exhibition, and by a shot, which in most 
cases is fatal, to avail himself of the indiscretion of his enemy. 
If, however, this habit of life begets skill in attack and destruc¬ 
tion, it has not the less beneficial effect in creating a like skill 
and ingenuity in the matter of defence. In this way we shall 
account for the limited amount of injury done in the Indian 
wars, in proportion to the noise and excitement which they 
make, and the many terrors they occasion. 

The fight had now begun in this manner, and, both parties 
being at the outset studiously well sheltered, with little or no 
injury — the shot doing no more harm to the enemy on either 
side than barking the branch of the tree or splintering the rock 
behind which they happened individually to be sheltered. In 
this fruitless manner the affray had for a little time been carried 
on, without satisfaction to any concerned, when Munro was be¬ 
held advancing, with the apology for a flag which he had used 
before, toward the beleaguered fortress. The parley he called 
for was acceded to, and Dexter again made his appearance. 

“What, tired already, Wat? The game is, to be sure, a shy 
one; but have patience, old fellow—we shall be at close quar¬ 
ters directly.” 

It was now the time for Munro to practise the subtlety which 
lie had designed, and a reasonable prospect of success he prom¬ 
ised himself from the bull-headed stupidity of his opponent. 
He had planned a stratagem, upon which parties, as we have 
seen, were despatched; and he now calculated his own move¬ 
ment in concert with theirs. It was his object to protract the 
parley which he had begun, by making propositions for an ar¬ 
rangement which, from a perfect knowledge of the men he had 
to deal with, he felt assured would not be listened to. In the 
meantime, pending the negotiation, each party left its cover, 
and, while they severally preserved their original relationships, 
and were so situated as, at a given signal, to regain their posi¬ 
tions, they drew nearer to one another, and in some instances 
began a conversation. Munro was cautious yet quick in the 


TP j’TBLE AMONG THE TRESPASSERS. 


167 


discussion, and, while his opponent with rough sarcasms taunted 
him upon the strength of his own position, and the utter inade¬ 
quacy of his strength to force it, he contented himself with sun¬ 
dry exhortations to a peaceable arrangement—to a giving up 
of the possessions they had usurped, and many other sugges¬ 
tions of a like nature, which he well knew would be laughed 
at and rejected. Still, the object was in part attained. The 
invaders, becoming more confident of their strength from this 
almost virtual abandonment of their first resort by their oppo¬ 
nents, grew momently less and less cautious. The rifle was 
rested against the rock, the sentinel took out his tobacco, and 
the two parties were almost intermingled. 

At length the hour had come. A wild and sudden shriek 
from that part of the beleaguered district in which the women 
and children were congregated, drew all eyes in that direction 
where the whole line of tents and dwellings were in a bright 
conflagration. The emissaries had done their work ably and 
well, and the devastation was complete; while the women and 
children, driven from their various sheltering-places, ran shriek¬ 
ing in every direction. Nor did Munro, at this time, forget his 
division of the labor: the opportunity was in his grasp, and it 
was not suffered to escape him. As the glance of Dexter was 
turned in the direction of the flames, he forgot his precaution, 
and the moment was not lost. Availing himself of the occasion, 
Munro dashed his flag of truce into the face of the man with 
whom he had parleyed, and, in the confusion which followed, 
seizing him around the body with a strength equal to his own, 
he dragged him, along with himself, over the low table of rock 
on which they had both stood, upon the soft earth below. Here 
they grappled with each other, neither having arms, and relying 
solely upon skill and muscle. 

The movement was too sudden, the surprise too complete, 
not to give an ascendency to the invaders, of which they readily 
availed themselves. The possession of the fortress was now in 
fact divided between them; and a mutual consciousness of their 
relative equality determined the two parties, as if by common 
consent, quietly to behold the result of the affair between the 
leaders. They had once recovered their feet, but were both 
of them again down, Munro being uppermost. Every artifice 


168 


GUY RIVERS 


known to tlie lusty wrestlers of this region was put in exercise, 
and the struggle was variously contested. At one time the as¬ 
cendency was clearly with the one, at another moment it was 
transferred to his opponent; victory, like some shy arbiter, 
seeming unwilling to fix the palm, from an equal regard for 
both the claimants. Munro still had the advantage ; but a mo¬ 
mentary pause of action, and a sudden evolution of his antago¬ 
nist, now materially altered their position, and Dexter, with 
the sinuous agility of the snake, winding himself completely 
around his opponent, now whirled him suddenly over and 
brought himself upop him. Extricating his arms with admira¬ 
ble skill, he was enabled to regain his knee, which was now 
closely pressed upon the bosom of the prostrate man, who strug¬ 
gled, hut in vain, to free himself from the position. 

The face of the ruffian, if we may so call the one in contra¬ 
distinction to the other, was black with fury; and Munro felt 
that his violation of the flag of truce was not likely to have any 
good effect upon his destiny. Hitherto, beyond the weapons 
of nature’s furnishing, they had been unarmed. The case was 
no longer so; for Dexter, having a momentary use of his hand, 
provided himself with a huge dirk-knife, guarded by a string 
which hung around his neck, and was usually worn in his bo¬ 
som : a sudden jerk threw it wide, and fixed the blade with a 
spring. 

It was a perilous moment for the fallen man, for the glance 
of the victor, apart from the action, indicated well the vindictive 
spirit within him; and the landlord averted his eyes, though he 
did not speak, and upraised his hands as if to ward off the blow. 
The friends of Munro now hurried to his relief, hut the stroke 
was already descending—when, on a sudden, to the surprise 
of all, the look of Dexter was turned from the foe beneath him, 
and fixed upon the hills in the distance — his blow was arrested 
— his grasp relaxed—he released his enemy, and rose sullenly 
to his feet, leaving his antagonist unharmed. 


NEW PARTIES TO THE CONFLICT. 


JC9 


CHAPTER IX. 

NEW PARTIES TO THE CONFLICT. 

This sudden and unlooked-for escape of Munro, from a fate 
lield so inevitable as well by himself as all around him, was not 
more a matter of satisfaction than surprise with that experienced 
personage. He did not deliberate long upon his release, how¬ 
ever, before recovering his feet, and resuming his former bellig¬ 
erent attitude. 

The circumstance to which he owed the unlooked-for and 
most unwonted forbearance of his enemy was quickly revealed. 
Following the now common direction of all eyes, he discerned 
a body of mounted and armed men, winding on their way to 
the encampment, in whose well-known uniform he recognised a 
detachment of the “ Georgia Guard,” a troop kept, as they all 
well knew, in the service of the state, for the purpose not mere¬ 
ly of breaking up the illegal and unadvised settlements of the 
squatters upon the frontiers, upon lands now known to be val¬ 
uable, but also of repressing and punishing their frequent out¬ 
lawries. Such a course had become essential to the repose and 
protection of the more quiet and more honest adventurer whose 
possessions they not only entered upon and despoiled, but whose 
lives, in numerous instances, had been made to pay the penalty 
of their enterprise. Such a force could alone meet the exigen¬ 
cy, in a country where the sheriff dared not often show himself; 
and, thus accoutred, and with full authority, the guard, either 
en masse , or in small divisions like the present, was employed, 
at all times, in scouring, though without any great success, the 
infested districts. 

The body now approaching was readily distinguishable, 
though yet at a considerable distance — the road over which it 

8 


170 


guy pfvfrs. 


came lying upon a long rid 0 e of bald an 1 elevated rocks. Its 
number was not large, comprising not more tlian forty persons; 
but, as the squatters were most commonly distrustful of one 
another, not living together or in much harmony, and having 
but seldom, as in the present instance, a community of interest 
or unity of purpose, such a force was considered adequate to all 
the duties assigned it. There was but little of the pomp or 
circumstance, of military array in their appearance or approach. 
Though d'.osceu. uniformly the gray and plain stuffs which they 
wore were n vie in unison with the habit of the hunter than the 
warrior; and. as in that country, the rifle is familiar as a 
household tning, the encounter with an individual of the troop 
would perhaps call for no remark. The plaintive note of a 
single bugle, at intervals reverberating wildly among the hills 
over which the party wound its way, more than anything beside, 
indicated its character; and even this accompaniment is so fa¬ 
miliar as an appendage with the southron — so common, par¬ 
ticularly to the negroes, who acquire a singular and sweet mas¬ 
tery over it, while driving their wagons through the woods, or 
poling their boats down the streams, that one might fairly doubt, 
with all these symbols, whether the advancing array were in 
fact more military than civil in its character. They rode on 
briskly in the direction of our contending parties — the sound of 
the bugle seeming not only to enliven, but to shape their course, 
since the stout negro who gave it breath rode considerably 
ahead of the troop. 

Among the squatters there was but little time for deliberation, 
yet never were their leaders more seriously in doubt as to the 
course most proper for their adoption in the common danger. 
They well knew the assigned duties of the guard, and felt their 
peril. It was necessary for the common safety — or, rather, the 
common spoil—that something should be determined upon imme¬ 
diately. They were now actually in arms, and could no longer, 
appearing individually and at privileged occupations, claim to 
be unobnoxious to the laws; and it need occasion no surprise 
in the reader, if, among a people of the class we have described, 
the measures chosen in the present exigency were of a charac¬ 
ter the most desperate and reckless. Dexter, whose recent 


NEW PARTIES TO THE CONFLICT. 171 

triumph gave him something in the way of a title to speak first, 
thus delivered himself:— 

“'Well, Munro — you may thank the devil and the Georgia 
guard for getting you out of that scrape. You owe both of 
them more now than you ever calculated to owe them. Had 
they not come in sight just at the lucky moment, my knife 
would have made mighty small work with your windpipe, I tell 
you — it did lie so tempting beneath it.” 

“Yes — I thought myself a gone chick under that spur, 
George, and so I believe thought all about us"; and when you 
put off the finishing stroke so suddenly, I took it for granted that 
you had seen the devil, or some other matter equally frightful,” 
was the reply of Munro, in a spirit and style equally unique 
and philosophical with that which preceded it. 

“ Why, it was something, though not the devil, bad enough 
for us in all conscience, as you know just as well as I. The 
Georgia guard won’t give much time for a move.” 

“ Bad enough, indeed, though I certainly ought not to com¬ 
plain of their appearance,” was the reply of Munro, whose 
recent escape seemed to run more in his mind than any other 
subject. He proceeded : — 

“ But this isn’t the first time I’ve had a chance so narrow for 
my neck; and more than once it has been said to me, that the 
man born for one fate can’t be killed by another; but when you 
had me down and your knife over me, I began to despair of 
my charm.” 

“You should have double security for it now, Wat, and so 
keep your prayers till you see the cross timbers, and the twisted 
trouble. There’s something more like business in hand now, 
and seeing that we shan’t be able to fight one another, as we 
intended, all that we can do hoav is to make friends as fast as 
possible, and prepare to fight somebody else.” 

“ You think just as I should in this matter, and that certainly 
is the wisest policy left us. It’s a common -cause we have to 
take care of, for I happen to know that Captain Fullam—and 
this I take to be his troop—has orders from the governor to 
see to us all, and clear the lands in no time. The state, it ap¬ 
pears, thinks the land quite too good for such as we, and takes 
this mode of telling us so. Now, as I care very little about the 


172 


GUV RIVERS. 


state — it has never done me any good, and I have alway** been 
able to take care of myself without it—I feel just in the hu¬ 
mor, if all parties are willing, to have a tug in the matter before 
I draw stakes.” 

“That’s just my notion, Wat ; and d—n ’em, if the boys are 
only true to the hub, we can row this guard up salt river in no 
time and less. Look you now—let’s put the thing on a good 
footing, and have no further disturbance. Put all the boys on 
shares — equal shares—in the diggings, and we’ll club strength, 
and can easily manage these chaps. There’s no reason, indeed, 
why we shouldn’t; for if we don’t fix them, we are done up, 
every man of us. We have, as you see and have tried, a pretty 
strong fence round us, and, if our men stand to it, and I see not 
why they shouldn’t, Fullam can’t touch us with his squad of 
fifty, ay, and a hundred to the back of ’em.” 

The plan was feasible enough in the eyes of men to whom 
ulterior consequences were as nothing in comparison with the 
excitement of the strife ; and even the most scrupulous among 
them were satisfied, in a little time, and with few arguments, 
that they had nothing to gain and everything to lose by retiring 
from the possessions in which they had toiled so long. There 
was nothing popular in the idea of a state expelling them from 
a soil of which it made no use itself; and few among the per¬ 
sons composing the array had ever given themselves much if 
any trouble, in ascertaining the nice, and with them entirely 
metaphysical distinction, between the mine and thine of the 
matter. ’Die proposition, therefore, startled none, and prudence 
having long since withdrawn from their counsels, not a dissent¬ 
ing voice was heard to the suggestion of a union between the 
two parties for the purpose of common defence. The terms, 
recognising all of both sides, as upon an equal footing in the 
profits of the soil, were soon arranged and completed; and in 
the space of a few moments, and before the arrival of the new¬ 
comers, the hostile forces, side by side, stood up for the new 
contest as if there had never been any other than a community 
of interest and feeling between them. A few words of en¬ 
couragement and cheer, given to their several commands by 
Munro and Dexter, were scarcely necessary, for what risk had 
their adherents to run — what to fear — what to lose? The 


NEW PARTIES TO THE CONFLICT. 


178 


courage of the desperado invariable increases in proportion to 
his irresponsibility. In fortune, as utterly destitute as in 
character, they had, in most respects, already forfeited the 
shelter, as in numberless instances they had not merely gone 
beyond the sanction, but had violated and defied the express 
interdict, of the laws: and now, looking, as such men are apt 
most usually to do, only to the immediate issue, and to nothing 
beyond it, the banditti—for such they were — with due deliber¬ 
ation and such a calm of disposition as might well comport with 
a life of continued excitement, proceeded again, most desper¬ 
ately, to set them at defiance. 

The military came on in handsome style. They were all 
fine-looking men; natives generally of a state, the great body 
of whose population are well-formed, and distinguished by 
features of clear, open intelligence. They were well-mounted, 
and each man carried a short rifle, a sword, and pair of pistols. 
They rode in single file, following their commander; a gentle¬ 
man, in person, of great manliness of frame, possessed of much 
grace and ease of action. They formed at command, readily, 
in front of the post, which may be now said to have assumed 
the guise of a regular military station ; and Fullam, the captain, 
advancing with much seeming surprise in his countenance and 
manner, addressed the squatters generally, without reference to 
the two leaders, who stood forth as representatives of their 
several divisions. 

“ How is this, my good fellows ? what is meant by your 
present military attitude 1 Why are you, on the sabbath, mus¬ 
tering in this guise — surrounded by barricades, arms in your 
hands, and placing sentinels on duty. What does all this 
mean V * 

“We carry arms,” replied Dexter, without pause, “because 
it suits us to do so; we fix barricades to keep out intruders; 
our sentinels have a like object; and if by attitude you mean 
our standing here and standing there-—why, I don’t see in 
what the thing concerns anybody but ourselves ■” 

“Indeed!” said the Georgian; “you bear it bravely, sir. 
But it is not to you only that I speak. Am I to understand 
you, good people, as assembled here for the purpose of resisting 
the laws of the hud?” 


174 


GUY RIVERS. 


“ We don’t know, captain, what you mean exactly ky the 
laws. of the land,” was the reply of Munro; “ but, I must say. 
we are here, as you see us now, to defend our property, which 
the laws have no right to take from us — none that I can see.” 

“ So! and is that your way of thinking, sir; and pray who 
are you that answer so freely for your neighbors ?” 

“ One, sir, whom my neighbors, it seems, have appointed to 
answer for them.” 

“ I am then to understand, sir, that you have expressed their 
determination on this subject, and that your purpose is resist¬ 
ance to any process of the state compelling you to leave these 
possessions!” 

“ You have stated their resolution precisely,” Avas the reply. 
“ They had notice that unauthorized persons, hearing of our 
prosperity, were making preparations to take them from us by 
force; and they prepared for resistance. When Ave knoAv the 
proper authorities, we shall answer fairly — but not till then.” 

“ Truly, a very manful determination; and, as you lia\ r e so 
expressed yourself, permit me to exhibit my authority, which I 
doubt not you will readily recognise. This instrument requires 
you, at once, to remove from these lands—entirely to forego 
their use and possession, and within forty-eight hours to yield 
them up to the authority Avhich iioav claims them at your 
hands.” Here the officer proceeded to read all those portions 
of his commission to which he referred, with considerable show 
of patience. 

“All that’s very well in your hands, and from your mouth, 
good sir; but how know Ave that the document you bear is not 
forged and false — and that you, with your people there, have 
not got up this fetch to trick us out of those possessions which 
you have not the heart to fight for ! We’re up to trap, you 
see.” 

With this insolent speech, Dexter contrived to show his im¬ 
patience of the parley, and that brutal thirst Avhich invariably 
prompted him to provoke and seek for extremities. The eye 
of the Georgian flashed out indignant fires, and hfs fingers in¬ 
stinctively grasped the pistol at his holster, Avhile the strongly, 
aroused expression of his features indicated the wrath within 
With a strong and successful effort. howeA*er. though inwardly 


NEW PARTIES TO THE CONFLICT. 


175 


chafed at the necessity of forbearance, he contrived, for a while 
longer, to suppress any more decided evidence of emotion, while 
he replied: — 

“Your language, sirrah, whatever you may he, is ruffianly 
and insolent; yet, as I represent the country and not myself in 
this business, and as I would perform my duties without harsh¬ 
ness, I pass it by. I am not bound to satisfy you, or any of 
your company, of the truth of the commission under which I 
act. It is quite enough if I myself am satisfied. Still, how¬ 
ever, for the same reason which keeps me from punishing your 
insolence, and to keep you from any treasonable opposition to 
the laws, you too shall be satisfied. Look here, for yourselves, 
good people—you all know the great seal of the state!” 

He now held up the document from which he had read, and 
which contained his authority; the broad seal of the state dan¬ 
gling from the parchment, distinctly in the sight of the whole 
gang. Dexter approached somewhat nearer, as if to obtain a 
more perfect view; and, while the Georgian, without suspicion, 
seeing his advance, and supposing that to be his object, held it 
more toward him, the ruffian, with an active and sudden bound, 
tore it from his hands, and leaping, followed by all his group, 
over his defences, was in a moment close under cover, and out 
of all danger. Rising from his concealment, however, in the 
presence of the officer, he tore the instrument into atoms, and 
dashing them toward their proprietor, exclaimed — 

“ Now, captain, what’s the worth of your authority ? Be off 
now in a hurry, or I shall fire upon you in short order!” 

We may not describe the furious anger of the Georgian. Ir¬ 
ritated beyond the control of a proper caution, he precipitately 
— and without that due degree of deliberation which must have 
taught him the madness and inefficacy of any assault by his 
present force upon an enemy so admirably disposed of—gave 
the command to fire; and after the ineffectual discharge, which 
had no other result than to call forth a shout of derision from 
the besieged, he proceeded to charge the barrier, himself fear¬ 
lessly leading the way. The first effort to break through the 
barricades was sufficient to teach him the folly of the design ; 
and a discharge from the defences bringing down two of his 
men, warned him of the necessity of duly retrieving his error 


176 


GUY RIVERS, 


He saw the odds, and retreated with order and in good conduct, 
until he sheltered the whole troop under a long hill, within rifle¬ 
shot of the enemy, whence, suddenly filing a detachment ob¬ 
liquely to the left, he made his arrangements for the passage of 
a narrow gorge, having something of the character of a road, 
and, though excessively broken and uneven, having been fre¬ 
quently used as such. It wound its way to the summit of a 
large hill, which stood parallel with the defences, and fully com¬ 
manded them ; and the descent of the gorge, on the opposite 
side, afforded him as good an opportunity, in a charge, of riding 
the squatters down, as the summit for picking them off singly 
with his riflemen. 

He found the necessity of great circumspection, however, in 
the brief sample of controversy already given him ; and with a 
movement in front, therefore, of a number of his force — suffi¬ 
cient, by employing the attention of the enemy in that quarter, 
to cover and disguise his present endeavor — he marshalled fif¬ 
teen of his force apart from the rest, leading them himself, as 
the most difficult enterprise, boldly up the narrow pass. The 
skirmishing was still suffered, therefore, to continue on the 
ground where it had begun, whenever a momentary exposure 
of the person of besieged or besieger afforded any chance for a 
successful shot. Nor was this game very hazardous to either 
party. The beleaguered force, as we have seen, was well pro¬ 
tected. The assailants, having generally dismounted, their 
horses being placed out of reach of danger, had, in the manner 
of their opponents, taken the cover of the rising ground, or the 
fallen tree, and in this way, awaiting the progress of events, 
were shielded from unnecessary exposure. It was only when a 
position became awkward or irksome, that the shoulder or the 
leg of the unquiet man thrust itself too pertinaciously above its 
shelter, and got barked or battered by a bullet; and as all par¬ 
ties knew too well the skill of their adversaries, it was not often 
that a shoulder or leg became so indiscreetly prominent. 

As it was, however, the squatters, from a choice of ground, 
and a perfect knowledge of it, together with the additional 
guards and defences which they had been enabled to place upon 
it, had evidently the advantage. Still, no event, calculated to 
impress either party with any decisive notion of the result, had 


NEW PARTIES TO THE CONFLICT. 


17T 


yet taken place; and beyond tlie injury done to the assailants 
in their first ill-advised assault, they had suffered no serious 
harm. They were confident in themselves and their leader — 
despised the squatters heartily — and, indeed, did not suffer 
themselves for a moment to think of the possibility of their 
defeat. 

Thus the play proceeded in front of the defences, while Ful- 
lam silently and industriously plied his way up the narrow 
gorge, covered entirely from sight by the elevated ridges of 
rock, which, rising up boldly on either side of the pass, had 
indeed been the cause of its formation. But his enemy was on 
the alert; and the cunning of Munro—-whom his companions, 
with an Indian taste, had entitled the “Black Snake”—had 
already prepared for the reception of the gallant Georgian. 
With a quick eye he had observed the diminished numbers of 
the force in front, and readily concluded, from the sluggishness 
of the affair in that quarter, that a finesse was in course of prep¬ 
aration. Conscious, too, from a knowledge of the post, that 
there was but a single mode of enfilading his defences, he had 
made his provision for the guardianship of the all-important 
point. Nothing was more easy than the defence of this pass, 
the ascent being considerable, rising into a narrow gorge, and 
as suddenly and in like manner descending on the point oppo¬ 
site that on which Fullam was toiling up his way. In addition 
to this, the gulley was winding and brokenly circuitous — now 
making a broad sweep of the circle—then terminating in a zig¬ 
zag and cross direction, which, until the road was actually 
gained, seemed to have no outlet; and at no time was the 
advancing force enabled to survey the pass for any distance 
ahead. 

Everything in the approach of the Georgian was conducted 
with the profoundest silence: not the slightest whisper indi¬ 
cated to the assailants the presence or prospect of any interrup¬ 
tion ; and, from the field of strife below, nothing but an occa¬ 
sional shot or shout gave token of the business in which at that 
moment all parties were engaged. This quiet was not destined 
to continue long. The forlorn hope had now reached midway 
of the summit—but not, as their leader had fondly anticipated, 
without observation from the foe—when the sound of a human 


178 


GUY RIVERS. 


voice directly above warned him of his error; and, looking up, 
he beheld, perched upon a fragment of the cliff, which hung 
directly over the gorge, the figure of a single man. For the 
first time led to anticipate resistance in this quarter, he bade 
the men prepare for the event as well as they might; and calling 
out imperatively to the individual, who still maintained his place 
on the projection of the rock as if in defiance, he bade him throw 
down his arms and submit. 

“ Throw down my arms! and for what ?” was the reply. 
“ I’d like to know by what right you require us to throw down 
our arms. It may do in England, or any other barbarous coun¬ 
try where the people don’t know their rights yet, to make them 
throw down their arms; but I reckon there’s no law for it in 
these parts, that you can show us, captain.” 

“ Pick that insolent fellow off, one of you,” was the order; 
and in an instant a dozen rifles were lifted, but the man was 
gone. A hat appearing above the cliff, was bored with several 
bullets; and the speaker, who laughed heartily at the success 
of his trick, now resumed his position on the cliff, with the luck¬ 
less hat perched upon the staff on which it had given them the 
provocation to fire. He laughed and shouted heartily at the 
contrivance, and hurled the victim of their wasted powder down 
among them. Much chagrined, and burning with indignation, 
Fullam briefly cried out to his men to advance quickly. The 
person who had hitherto addressed him was our old acquaint¬ 
ance Forrester, to whom, in the division of the duties, this post 
had been assigned. He spoke again : — 

“ You’d better not, captain, I advise you. It will be danger¬ 
ous if you come farther. Don’t trouble us, now, and be off, as 
soon as you can, out of harm’s way. Your bones will be all 
the better for it; and I declare I don’t like to hurt such a fine- 
looking chap if I can possibly avoid it. Now take a friend’s 
advice; ’twill be all the better for you, I tell you.” 

The speaker evidently meant well, so far as it was possible 
for one to mean well who was commissioned to do, and was, in 
fact, doing ill. The Georgian, however, only the more indig¬ 
nant at the impertinence of the address, took the following no¬ 
tice of it, uttered in the same breath with an imperative com¬ 
mand to his own men to hasten their advance 


NEW PARTIES TO THE CONFLICT. 


179 

“ Disperse yourselves, scoundrels, and throw down your arms ! 
— on the instant disperse ! Lift a hand, or pull a trigger upon 
us, and every man shall dangle upon the branches of the first 
tree!” 

As he spoke, leading the way, he drove his rowels into the 
sides of his animal; and, followed by his troop, bounded fear¬ 
lessly up the gorg-3. 


■*> 





180 


GUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

CATASTROPHE — COLLET \ T, S DISCOVERY. 

It is time to return to Ralph Colleton, who has quite too 
long escaped our consideration. The reader will doubtless re¬ 
member, with little difficulty, where and under what circum¬ 
stances we left him. Provoked by the sneer and sarcasm of the 
man whom at the same moment he most cordially despised, we 
have seen him taking a position in the controversy, in which 
his person, though not actually within the immediate sphere of 
action, was nevertheless not a little exposed to some of its risks. 
This position, with fearless indifference, he continued to main¬ 
tain, unshrinkingly and without interruption, throughout the 
whole period and amid all the circumstances of the conflict. 
There was something of a b* yish de.nr a nation in this way to 
assert his courage, which his own sense in^ ^rcL- rebuked ; yet 
such is the nature of those peculiarities in southern habits and 
opinions, to which we have already referred, on all matters 
which relate to personal prowess and a masculine defiance of 
danger, that, even while entertaining the most profound con¬ 
tempt for those in whose eye the exhibition was made, he was 
not sufficiently independent of popular opinion to brave its cur¬ 
rent when he himself was its subject. He may have had an 
additional motive for this proceeding, which most probably en¬ 
forced its necessity. He well knew that fearless courage, among 
this people, was that quality which most certainly won and se 
cured their respect; and the policy was not unwise, perhaps, 
which represented this as a good opportunity for a display which 
might have the effect of protecting him from wanton insult or 
aggression hereafter. To a certain extent he was at their mer¬ 
cy ; and conscious, from what he had seen, of the unscrupulous 


CATASTROPHE — COLLETON^ DISCOVERY. 181 

clii racter of tlieir minds, every exhibition of the kind had some 
weight in his favor. 

It was with a lively and excited spirit that he surveyed, from 
the moderate eminence on which he stood, the events going on 
around him. Though not sufficiently near the parties (and 
scrupulous not to expose himself to the chance of being for a 
moment supposed to be connected with either of them) to ascer¬ 
tain their various arrangements, from what had met his obser¬ 
vation, he had been enabled to form a very correct inference as 
to the general progress of affairs. He had beheld the proceed¬ 
ings of each array while under cover, and contending with one 
another, to much the same advantage as the spectator who sur¬ 
veys the game in which two persons are at play. He could 
have pointed out the mistakes of both in the encounter he had 
witnessed, and felt assured that he could have ably and easily 
amended them. His frame quivered with the “ rapture of the 
strife,” as Attila is said to have called the excitation of battle; 
and his blood, with a genuine southern fervor, rushed to and 
from his heart with a bounding impulse, as some new achieve¬ 
ment of one side or the other added a fresh interest to, and in 
some measure altered the face of, the affair. But when he be¬ 
held the new array, so unexpectedly, yet auspiciously for 
Munro, make its appearance upon the field, the excitement of 
his spirit underwent proportionate increase; and with deep 
anxiety, and a sympathy now legitimate with the assailants, he 
surveyed the progress of an affray for which his judgment, pre¬ 
pared him t<> anticipate a most unhappy termination. As the 
strife proceeded, he half forgot his precaution, and unconscious¬ 
ly continued, at every moment, to approach more nearly to the 
scene of strife. His heart was now all impulse, his spirit all 
enthusiasm; and with an unquiet eye and restless frame, he be¬ 
held the silent passage of the little detachment under the gallant 
Georgian, up the narrow gorge. At some distance from the hill, 
and on an eminence, his position enabled him to perceive, when 
the party had made good their advance nearly to the summit, 
the impending danger. He saw the threatening cliff, hanging 
as it were in mid air above them; and all his sympathies, warm¬ 
ly excited at length by the fearfulness of the peril into a degree 
of active partisanship u hich, at the beginning, a proper prndence 


182 


GUY RIVERS. 


had well counselled him to avoid, he put spurs to his steed, and 
rushing forward to the foot of the hill, shouted out to the advan¬ 
cing party the nature of the danger which awaited them. He 
shouted strenuously, but in vain — and with a feeling almost 
amounting to agony, he beheld the little troop resolutely ad¬ 
vance beneath the ponderous rock, which, held in its place by 
the slightest purchase, needed but the most moderate effort to 
upheave and unfix it for ever. 

It was fortunate for th? youth that the situation in which he 
stood was concealed entirely from the view of those in the en¬ 
campment. It had been no object with him to place himself in 
safety, for the consideration of his own chance of exposure had 
never been looked to in his mind, when, under the noble im¬ 
pulse of humanity, he had rushed forward, if possible, to recall 
the little party, who either did not or were unwilling to hear 
his voice of warning and prevention. Had he been beheld, 
there would have been few of the squatters unable, and still 
fewer unwilling, to pick him off with their rifles; and, as the 
event will show, the good Providence alone which had hitherto 
kept with him, rather than the forbearance of his quondam ac 
quaintanee, continued to preserve his life. 

Apprized of the ascent of the pass, and not disposed to permit 
of the escape of those whom the defenders of it above might 
spare, unobserved by his assailants in front, Dexter, with a 
small detachment, sallying through a loophole of his fortress, 
took an oblique course toward the foot of the gorge, by which 
to arrest the flight of the fugitives. This course brought him 
directly upon, and in contact with, Ralph, who stood immedi¬ 
ately at its entrance, with uplifted eye, and busily engaged in 
shouting, at intervals, to the yet advancing assailants. The 
squatters approached cautiously and unperceived; for so deep¬ 
ly was the youth interested in the fate of those for whom his 
voice and hands were alike uplifted, that he was conscious of 
nothing else at that moment of despair and doubt. The very 
silence which at that time hung over all things, seemed of itself 
te cloud and obstruct, while they lulled the senses into a corre¬ 
sponding slumber. 

It was well for the youth, and unlucky for the assassin, that, 
as Dexter, with his uplifted hatchet—for fire-arms at that peri 


CATASTROPHE — COLLETON’S DISCOVERY. 183 

od he dared not use, for fear of attracting the attention of his 
foes—struck at his head, his advanced foot became entangled 
in the root of a tree which ran above the surface, and the im¬ 
petus of his action occurring at the very instant in which he en¬ 
countered the obstruction, the stroke fell short of his victim, and 
grazed the side of his horse; while the ruffian himself, stum¬ 
bling forward and at length, fell headlong upon the ground. 

The youth was awakened to consciousness. His mind was 
one of that cast with which to know, to think, and to act, are 
simultaneous. Of ready decision, he was never at a loss, and 
seldom surprised into even momentary incertitude. With the 
first intimation of the attack upon himself, his pistol had been 
drawn, and while the prostrate ruffian was endeavoring to rise, 
and before he had well regained his feet, the unerring ball was 
driven through his head, and without word or effort he fell back 
among his fellows, the blood gushing from his mouth and nos¬ 
trils in unrestrained torrents. 

The whole transaction was the work of a single instant; and 
before the squatters, who came with their slain leader, could 
sufficiently recover from the panic produced by the event to re¬ 
venge his death, the youth was beyond their reach; and the 
assailing party of the guard, in front of the post, apprized of the 
sally by the discharge of the pistol, made fearful work among 
them by a general fire, while obliquing to the entrance of the 
pass just in time to behold the catastrophe, now somewhat pre¬ 
cipitated by the event which had occurred below. Ralph, 
greatly excited, regained his original stand of survey, and with 
feelings of unrepressed horror beheld the catastrophe. The 
Georgian had almost reached the top of the hill — another turn 
of the road gave him a glimpse of the table upon which rested 
the hanging and disjointed cliff of which we have spoken, when 
a voice was heard — a single voice—in inquiry :— 

“ All ready V ’ 

The reply was immediate — 

“ Ay, ay; now prize away, boys, and let go.” 

The advancing troop looked up, and were permitted a mo¬ 
mentary glance of the terrible fate which awaited them before it 
fell. That moment was e?iougli for horror. A general cry burst 
from the lij s of those in fi mt, the only notice which those in the 


184 


GUY RIVERS. 


rear ever received of the danger before it was upon them. An 
effort, half paralyzed by the awful emotion which came over 
them, was made to avoid the down-coming ruin; but with only 
partial success; for, in an instant after, the ponderous mass, 
which hung for a moment like a cloud above them, uplieaved 
from its bed of ages, and now freed from all stays, with a sud¬ 
den, hurricane-like and whirling impetus, making the solid rock 
tremble over which it rushed, came thundering down, swinging 
over one half of the narr nv trace, bounding from one side to the 
other along the gorge, and with the headlong fury of a cataract 
sweeping everything from before its path until it reached the 
dead level of the plain below. The involuntary shriek from those 
who beheld the mass, when, for an instant impending above 
them, it seemed to hesitate in its progress down, was more full 
of human terror than any utterance which followed the event. 
With the exception of a groan, wrung forth here and there from 
the half-crushed victim, in nature’s agony, the deep silence which 
ensued was painful and appalling; and even when the dust 
had dissipated, and the eye was enabled to take in the entire 
amount of the evil deed, the prospect failed in impressing the 
senses of the survivors with so distinct a sentiment of horror, as 
when the doubt and death, suspended in air, were yet only 
threatened. 

Though prepared for the event, in one sense of the word, the 
great body of the squatters were not prepared for the unusual 
emotions which succeeded it in their bosoms. The arms 
dropped from the hands of many of them — a speechless 
horror was the prevailing feature of all, and all fight was over, 
while the scene of bloody execution was now one of indiscrim¬ 
inate examination and remark with friend and foe. Ralph was 
the first to rush up the fatal pass, and to survey the horrible 
prospect. 

One half of the brave little corps had been swept to instant 
death by the unpitying rock, without having afforded the slight¬ 
est obstacle to its fearful progress. In one place lay a diseim 
bowelled steed panting its last; mangled in a confused and 
unintelligible mass lay beside him another, the limbs of his 
rider in many places undistinguishable from his own. One 
poor wretch, whom he assisted to extricate from beneath the 


CATASTROPHE — COLLETON’S DISCOVERY. 185 

body of bis struggling liorse, cried to him for Avater, and-died in 
the prayer. Fort mately for the few who survived the catas¬ 
trophe— among whom was their gallant but unfortunate young 
leader — they had, at the first glimpse of the danger, urged on 
their horses wit'* 3a.mb 1 ed effort, and by a close approach to 
the surface of the rock, taidng an oblique direction wide of its 
probable, course, had, at the time of its precipitation, reached a 
line a'most parallel with the place upon which it stood, and in 
this way achieved their escape vitkout injury. Their number 
was few, however; and not one half of the fifteen, who com¬ 
menced the ascent, ever reache: or survived its attainment. 

Ralph gained the summit just in time to prevent the comple¬ 
tion of the foul tragedy by ito most appropriate climax. As if 
enough had not yet been done in the way of crime, the malig¬ 
nant and merciless Rivers, of whom we have seen little in this 
affair, but by whose black and devilish spirit the means of de¬ 
struction had been hit upon, which had so well succeeded, now 
stood over the body of the Georgian, with uplifted hand, about 
to complete the deed already begun. There was not a moment 
for delay, and the youth sprung forward in time to seize and 
wrest the weapon from his grasp. With a feeling of undis¬ 
guised indignation, he exclaimed, as the outlaw turned furiously 
upon him — 

‘‘Wretch—what would you? Have you not done enough? 
would you strike the unresisting man ?” 

Rivers, with undisguised effort, now turned his rage upon the 
intruder. His words, choked by passion, could scarce find ut¬ 
terance ; but he spoke with furious effort at length, as he di¬ 
rected a wild blow with a battle-axe at the head of the youth. 

“ You come for your death, and you shall have it!” 

“Not yet,” replied Ralph, adroitly avoiding the stroke and 
closing with the ruffian — “you will find that I am not urequal 
to the struggle, though it be with such a m nster as yourself.” 

What might have been the event of this combat may not be 
said. The parties were separated in a moment by the inter¬ 
position of Forrester., but not till our hero, tearing off in the 
scuffle the handkerchief which had hitherto encircled the cheeks 
of his opponent, discovered the friendly outlaw who collected 
toll for the Pony Club, and upon whose face the hoof of his 



186 


GUY RIVERS. 


horse was most visibly engraven—who had so boldy avowed 
his design upon his life and purse, and whom he had so fortu¬ 
nately and successfully foiled on his first approach to the vil¬ 
lage. 

The fight was over after this catastrophe; the survivors of 
the guard, who were unhurt, had fled; and the parties with 
little stir were all now assembled around the scene of it. There 
was little said upon the occasion. The wounded were taken 
such care of as circumstances would permit; and wagons having 
been provided, were all removed to the village. Begun with too 
much impulse, and conducted with too little consideration, the 
struggle between the military and the outlaws had now ter¬ 
minated in a manner that left perhaps but little satisfaction in 
the minds of either party. The latter, though generally an 
unlicensed tribe — an Ishmaelitish race — whose hands were 
against all men, were not so sure that they had not been guilty 
of a crime, not merely against the laws of man and human 
society, but against the self-evident decrees and dictates of 
God; and with this doubt, at least, if not its conviction, in their 
thoughts, their victory, such as it was, afforded a source of very 
qualified rejoicing. 


CLOSE QUARTERS. 


187 


CHAPTER XV. 

CLOSE (QUARTERS. 

Colleton was by no means slow in the recognition of the 
ruffian, and only wondered at his own dullness of vision in not 
having made the discovery before. Nor did Rivers, with all 
his habitual villany, seem so well satisfied with his detection. 
Perceiving himself fully known, a momentary feeling of inqui¬ 
etude came over him; and though he did not fear, he began to 
entertain in his mind that kind of agitation and doubt which 
made him, for the first time, apprehensive of the consequences. 
He was not the cool villain like Munro—never to be taken by 
surprise, or at disadvantage; and his eye was now withdrawn, 
though but for a moment, beneath the stern and searching glance 
which read him through. 

'That tacit animal confession and acknowledgment were alone 
sufficient to madden a temper such as that of Rivers. Easily 
aroused, his ferocity was fearless and atrocious, but not meas¬ 
ured or methodical. His mind was not marked—we had al¬ 
most said tempered—by that wholesome indifference of mood 
which, in all matters of prime villany, is probably the most 
desirable constituent. He was, as we have seen, a creature of 
strong passions, morbid ambition, quick and even habitual ex¬ 
citement; though, at times, endeavoring to put on that air of 
sarcastic superiority to all emotion which marked the character 
of the ascetic philosopher—a character to which he had not the 
slightest claim of resemblance, and the very affectation of which, 
whenever he became aroused or irritated, was completely forgot¬ 
ten. Without referring—as Munro would have done, and, in¬ 
deed, as he subsequently did—to the precise events which had 
already just taken place and were still in progress about him, 
and which made all parties equally obnoxious with himself to 


188 


GUY RIVERS. 


human punishment, and for an offence far more criminal in its 
dye than that which the youth laid to his charge—he could 
not avoid the momentary apprehension, which — succeeding 
with the quickness of thought the intelligent and conscious 
glance of Colleton—immediately came over him. His eye, 
seldom distinguished by such a habit, quailed before it; and 
the deep malignity and festering hatred of his soul toward the 
youth, which it so unaccountably entertained before, under¬ 
went, by this mortification of his pride, a due degree of exag¬ 
geration. 

Ralph, though wise beyond his years, and one who, in a 
thought borrowed in part from Ovid, we may say, could rather 
compute them by events than brdinary time, wanted yet con¬ 
siderably in that wholesome, though rather dowdyish virtue, 
which men call prudence. He acted on the present occasion 
precisely as he might have done in the college campus, with all 
the benefits of a fair field and a plentiful crowd of backers. 
Without duly reflecting whether an accusation of the kind he 
preferred, at such a time, to such men, and against one of their 
own accomplices, would avail much, if anything, toward the 
punishment of the criminal — not to speak of his own risk, 
necessarily an almost certain consequence from such an implied 
determination not to be partkeps erbninis with any of them, he 
approached, and boldly denounced Rivers as a murderous vil¬ 
lain; and urgently called upon those around him to aid in his 
arrest. 

But he was unheard—he had no auditors; nor did this fact 
result from any unwillingness on their part to hear and listen to 
the charge against one so detested as the accused. They could 
see and hear but of one subject—they could comprehend no 
other. The events of such fresh and recent occurrence were in 
all minds and before all eyes; and few, besides Forrester, either 
heard to understand, or listened for a moment to the recital. 

Ncr did the latter and now unhappy personage appear to give 
it much more consideration than the rest. Hurried on by the 
force of associating circumstances, and by promptings not of 
himself or his, he had been an active performer in the terrible 
drama we have already witnessed, and the catastrophe of which 
he could now only, and in vain, deplore. Leaning with vacant 


CLOSE QUARTERS. 


189 


stare and lacklustre vision against the neighboring rock, he 
seemed indifferent to, and perhaps ignorant of, the occurrences 
taking place around him. He had interfered when the youth 
and Rivers were in contact, but so soon after the event narrated, 
that time for reflection had not then been allowed. The dread¬ 
ful process of thinking himself into an examination of his own 
deeds was going on; and remorse, with its severe but salutary 
stings, wrtj doing, without restraint, her rigorous duties. 

Though either actually congregated or congregating around 
him, and within free and easy hearing of his voice, now stretched 
to its utmost, the party were quite too busily employed in the 
discussion of the events—too much immersed in the sudden 
stupor which followed, in nearly all minds, their termination— 
to know or care much what were the hard words which our 
young traveller bestowed upon the detected outlaw. They had 
all of them (their immediate leaders excepted) been hurried on, 
as is perfectly natural and not unfrequently the case, by the 
rapid succession of incidents (which in their progress of excite¬ 
ment gave them no time for reflection), from one act to another; 
without perceiving, in a single pause, the several gradations by 
which they insensibly passed on from crime to crime; — and it 
was only now, and in a survey of the several foot-prints in 
their progress, that they were enabled to perceive the vast and 
perilous leaps which they had taken. As in the ascent of the 
elevation, step by step, we can judge imperfectly of its height, 
until from the very summit we look down upon our place of start¬ 
ing, so with the wretched outcasts of society of whom we speak. 
Flushed with varying excitements, they had deputed the task 
of reflection to another and a calmer time; and with the reins 
of sober reason relaxed, whirled on by their passions, they lost 
all control over their own impetuous progress, until brought up 
and checked, as we have seen, by a catastrophe the most ruinous 
— the return of reason being the signal for the rousing up of 
those lurking furies—terror, remorse, and many and maddening 
regrets. From little to large events, we experience or behold 
this every day. It is a history, and all read it. It belongs to 
human nature and to society; and until some process shall be 
discovered by which men shall be compelled to think by rule 
and under regulation, as in a penitentiary their bodies are 


190 


GUY RIVERS. 


required to work, we despair of having much improvement in 
the general condition of human affairs. The ignorant and un¬ 
educated man is quite too willing to depute to others the task of 
thinking for him and furnishing his opinions. The great mass 
are gregarious, and whether a lion or a log is chosen for their 
guidance, it is still the same — they will follow the leader, if 
regularly recognised as such, even though he be an ass. As if 
conscious of their own incapacities, whether these arise from 
deficiencies of education or denials of birth, they forego the 
only habit — that of self-examination — which alone can supply 
the deficiency; and with a blind determination, are willing, on 
any terms, to divest themselves of the difficulties and responsi¬ 
bilities of their own government. They crown others with all 
command, and binding their hands with cords, place themselves 
at the disposal of those, who, in many cases, not satisfied with 
thus much, must have them hookwinked also. To this they 
also consent, taking care, in their great desire to be slaves, to be 
foremost themselves in tying on the bandage which keeps them 
in darkness and in chains for ever. Thus will they be content 
to live, however wronged, if not absolutely bruised and beaten; 
happy to escape from the cares of an independent mastery of 
their own conduct, if, in this way, they can also escape from the 
noble responsibilities of independence. 

The unhappy men, thus led on, as we have seen, from the 
commission of misdemeanor to that of crime, in reality, never 
foi a moment thought upon the matter. The landlord, Dexter, 
and Rivers, had, time out of mind, been their oracles; and, 
without referring to the distinct condition of those persons, they 
reasoned in a manner not uncommon with the ignorant. Like 
children at play, they did not perceive the narrow boundaries 
which separate indulgence from licentiousness; and in the hur¬ 
ried excitement of the mood, inspired by the one habit, they 
had passed at once, unthinkingly and unconsciously, into the 
excesses of the other. They now beheld the eveut in its true 
colors, and there were but few among the squatters not sadly 
doubtful upon the course taken, and suffering corresponding 
dismay from its probable consequences. To a few, such as 
Munro and Rivers, the aspect of the thing was unchanged— 
they had beheld its true features from the outset, and knew the 


CLOSE QUARTERS. 


191 


course, and defied the consequences. They had already made 
up their minds upon it—had regarded the matter in all its 
phases, and suffered no surprise accordingly. Not so with the 
rest—with Forrester in particular, whose mental distress, 
though borne with manliness, was yet most distressing. He 
stood apart, saying nothing, yet lamenting inwardly, with the 
self-upbraid4ngs of an agonized spirit, the easy facility with 
which he had been won, by the cunning of others, into the 
perpetration of a crime so foul. He either for a time heard not 
or understood not the charges made by Ralph against his late 
coadjutor, until brought to his consciousness by the increased 
stir among the confederates, who now rapidly crowded about 
the spot, in time to hear the denial of the latter to the accusa¬ 
tion, in language and a manner alike fierce and unqualified. 

“Hear me!” was the exclamation of the youth—his voice 
rising in due effect, and illustrating well the words he uttered, 
and the purpose of his speech: — “I charge this born and 
branded villain with an attempt upon my life. He sought to 
rob and murder me at the Oatcheta pass but a few days ago. 
Thrown between my horse’s feet in the struggle, he received 
the brand of his hoof, which he now wears upon his cheek. 
There he stands, with the well-deserved mark upon him, and 
which, but for the appearance of his accomplices, I should have 
made of a yet deeper character. Let him deny it if he can or 
dare.” 

The face of Rivers grew alternately pale and purple with 
passion, and he struggled in vain, for several minutes, to speak. 
The words came from him hoarsely and gratingly. Fortunately 
for him, Munro, whose cool villany nothing might well discom¬ 
pose, perceiving the necessity of speech for him who had none, 
interfered with the following inquiry, uttered in something like 
a tone of surprise. 

“ And what say you to this accusation, Guy Rivers 1 Can 
you not find an answer V 

“ It is false—false as hell! and you know it, Munro, as well 
as myself. I never saw the boy until at your house.” 

“ That I know, and why you should take so long to say it I 
can’t understand. It appears to me, young gentleman,” said 
Munro, with most cool and delightful effrontery, “ that I can 


192 


GUY RIVERS. 


set all these matters right. I can show you to be under a mis¬ 
take ; for I happen to know that, at the very time of which 
you speak, we were both of us up in the Chestatee fork, looking 
for a runaway slave—you know the fellow, boys—Black Tom 
—who has been out for six months and more, and of whom I 
got information a few weeks ago. Well, as everybody knows, 
the Chestatee fork is at least twenty miles from the Catcheta 
pass; and if we were in one place, we could not, I am disposed 
to think, very well be in another.” 

“An alibi, clearly established,” was the remark of Counsellor 
Pippin, who now, peering over the shoulders of the youth, ex¬ 
hibited his face for the first time during the controversies of the 
day. Pippin Was universally known to be possessed of an ad¬ 
mirable scent for finding out a danger when it is well over, and 
when the spoils, and not the toils, of the field are to be reaped. 
His appearance at this moment had the effect of arousing, in 
some sort, the depressed spirits of those around him, by recal¬ 
ling to memory and into exercise the jests upon his infirmities, 
which long use had made legitimate and habitual. Calculating 
the probable effect of such a joke, Munro, without seeming to 
observe the interruption, looking significantly round among the 
assembly, went on to say — 

“ If you have been thus assaulted, young man, and I am not 
disposed to say it is not as you assert, it can not have been by 
any of our village, unless it be that Counsellor Pippin and his 
fellow Hob were the persons: they were down, now I recollect, 
at the Catcheta pass, somewhere about the time; and I’ve long 
suspected Pippin to be more dangerous than people think him.” 

“I deny it all—I deny it. It’s not true, young man. It’s 
not true, my friends; don’t believe a word of it. Now, Munro, 
how can you speak so ? Hob — Hob—Hob — I say—where 
the devil are you? Hob — say, you rascal, was I within five 
miles of the Catcheta pass to-day ?” The negro, a black of the 
sootiest complexion, now advanced : — 

“No, maussa.” 

“Was I yesterday?” 

The negro put his finger to his forehead, and the lawyer be- 
f an to fret at this indication of thought, and, as it promised to 
continue, exclaimed— 


CLOSE QUARTERS. 193 

“ Speak, you rascal, speak out; you know well enough with¬ 
out reflecting.” The slave cautiously responded — 

“If inaussa want to be dere, maussa dere — no casion for ax 
Hob.” 

“ You black rascal, you know well enough I was not there— 
that I was not within five miles of ths spot, either to-day, yes¬ 
terday, or for ten days back !” 

“ Berry true, maussa; if you no dere, you no dere. Hob 
nebber say one ting when maussa say ’noder.” 

The unfortunate counsellor, desperate with the deference of 
his body-servant, now absolutely perspired with rage; while, 
to the infinite amusement of all, in an endeavor to strike the 
pliable witness, who adroitly dodged the blow, the lawyer, not 
over-active of frame, plunged incontinently forward, and paused 
not in his headlong determination until he measured himself at 
length upon the ground. The laugh which succeeded was one 
of effectual discomfiture, and the helpless barrister made good 
his retreat from a field so unpromising by a pursuit of the swift¬ 
footed negro, taking care not to return from the chase. 

Colleton, who had regarded this interlude with stern brow 
and wrathful spirit, now spoke, addressing Munro : — 

“You affirm most strongly for this villain, but your speech is 
vain if its object be to satisfy my doubts. What effect it may 
have upon our hearers is quite another matter. You can not 
swear me out of my conviction and the integrity of my senses. 
I am resolute in the one belief, and do not hesitate here, and in 
the presence of himself and all of you, to pronounce him again 
all the scoundrel I declared him to be at first — in the teetli of 
all your denials not less than of his! But, perhaps—as you 
answer for him so readily and so well — let us know, for doubt¬ 
less you can, by what chance he came by that brand, that fine 
impress which he wears so happily upon his cheek. Can you 
not inform him where he got it — on what road he met with it, 
and whether the devil’s or my horse’s heel gave it him!” 

“ If your object be merely to insult me, young man, I forgive 
it. You are quite too young for me to punish, and I have only 
pity for the indiscretion that moves you to unprofitable violence 
at this time and in this place, where you see but little respect 
is shown to those who invade us with harsh words or actions. 

9 


GUY RIVERS. 


194 

As for your charge against Rivers, I happen to know that it is 
unfounded, and my evidence alone would be sufficient for the 
purpose of his defence. If, however, he were guilty of the at¬ 
tempt, as you allege, of what avail is it for you to make it ? 
Look around you, young man !” — taking the youth aside as he 
spoke in moderated terms —you have eyes and understanding, 
and can answer the question for yourself. Who is here to ar¬ 
rest him ? Who would desire, who would dare to make the 
endeavor? We are all here equally interested in his escape, 
were he a criminal in this respect, because we are all here” — 
and his voice fell in such a manner as to be accommodated to 
the senses of the youth alone — “ equally guilty of violating the 
same laws, and by an offence in comparison with which that 
against you would be entirely lost sight of. There is the court¬ 
house, it is true — and there the jail; but we seldom see sheriff, 
judge, or jailer. When they do make their appearance, which 
is not often, they are glad enough to get away again. If we 
here suffer injury from one another, we take justice into our 
own hands—as you allege yourself partly to have done in this 
cxse—and there the matter generally ends. Rivers, you think, 
assaulted you, and had the worst of it. You got off with but 
little harm yourself, and a reasonable man ought to be satisfied. 
Nothing more need be said of it. This is the wisest course, let 
me advise you. Be quiet about the matter, go on your way, 
and leave us to ourselves. Better suffer a little wrong, and 
seem to know nothing of it, than risk a quarrel with those who, 
ilaving once put themselves out of the shelter of the laws, take 
every opportunity of putting them at defiance. And what if 
you were to push the matter, where will the sheriff or the mili¬ 
tary find us? In a week and the judge will arrive, and the 
court will be in session. For that week we shall be out of the 
way. Nobody shall know—nobody can find us. This day’s 
work will most probably give us all a great itch for travel.” 

Munro had, in truth, made out a very plain case; an I his 
representations, in the main, were all correct. The youth felt 
their force, and his reason readily assented to the plain-sense 
course which they pointed out. Contenting himself, therefore, 
with reiterating the charge, he concluded with saying that, for 
the present, he would let the affair rest. “ Until the ruffian” — 


CLOSE QUARTERS. 


19o 


thus he phrased it—“had answered the penalties of the laws 
for his subsequent and more heinous offence against them, he 
should be silent.” 

“ But I have not done with you , young sir,” was the imme¬ 
diate speech of Bivers—his self-confidence and much of his 
composure returned, as, with a fierce and malignant look, and 
a quick stride, he approached the youth. “ You have thought 
proper to make a foul charge against me, which I have denied. 
It has been shown that your assertion is unfounded, yet you 
persist in it, and offer no atonement. I now demand redress— 
the redress of a gentleman. You know the custom of the coun¬ 
try, and regard your own character, I should think, too highly 
to refuse me satisfaction. You have pistols, and here are rifles 
and dirks. Take your choice.” 

The youth looked upon him with ineffable scorn as he re¬ 
plied— 

“ You mistake me, sirrah, if you think I can notice your call 
with anything but contempt.” 

“ What! will you not fight—not fight ? not back your words ?” 

“Not with you!” was the calm reply. 

“ You refuse me satisfaction, after insulting me!” 

“ I always took him for a poor chicken, from the first time I 
set eyes on him,” said one of the spectators. 

“Yes, I didn’t think much of him, when he refused to join 
us,” was the remark of another. 

“ This comes of so much crowing; Brag is a good dog, but 
Holdfast is better,” went on a third, and each man had his 
remark upon Colleton’s seeming timidity. Scorn and indigna¬ 
tion were in all faces around him; and Forrester, at length 
awakened from his stupor by the tide of fierce comment set¬ 
ting in upon his friend from all quarters, now thought it time to 
interfere. 

“Come, ’squire, how’s this? Don’t give way—give him 
satisfaction, as lie calls it, and send the lead into his gizzard. 
It wdll be no harm done, in putting it to such a creature as that. 
Don’t let him crow over old Carolina—don t, now, squire! 
You can hit him as easy as a barndoor, for I saw your jbot to¬ 
day; don’t be afraid, now — stand up, and I’ll back you *.gainsr. 
the whole of them.” 


106 


GUY RIVERS. 


“Ay, bring him forward, Forrester. Let him be a man, if he 
can,” was the speech of one of the party. 

“ Come, ’squire, let me say that you arc ready. I’ll mark 
off the ground, and you shall have fair play,” was the earnest 
speech of the woodman in terms of entreaty. 

“ You mistake me greatly, Forrester, if you suppose for a 
moment that I will contend on equal terms with such a wretch. 
He is a common robber and an outlaw, whom I have denounced 
as such, and whom I can not therefore fight with. Were he a 
gentleman, or had he any pretensions to the character, you 
should have no need to urge me on, I assure you.” 

“ I know that, ’squire, and therefore it provokes me to think 
that the skunk should get off. Can’t you, now, lay aside the 
gentleman just long enough to wing him? Noav, do try!” 

The youth smiled as he shook his head negatively. For¬ 
rester, with great anxiety, proceeded : — 

“ But, ’squire, they won’t know your reason for refusing, and 
they will set you down as afear’d. They will call you a cow¬ 
ard !” 

“And what if they do, Forrester ? They are not exactly the 
people about whose opinions I give myself any concern. I am 
not solicitous to gain credit for courage among them. If any 
of them doubt it, let him try me. Let one of them raise a hand 
or lift a finger upon me, and make the experiment. They will 
then find me ready and willing enough to defend myself from 
any outrage, come from what quarter it may.” 

“ I’m afraid, ’squire, they can’t be made to understand the 
difference between a gentleman and a squatter. Indeed, it isn’t 
reasonable that they should, seeing that such a difference puts 
them out of any chance of dressing a proud fellow who carries 
his head too high. If you don’t fight, ’squire, I must, if it’s only 
for the honor of old Carolina. So here goes.” 

The woodman threw off his coat, and taking up his rifle, sub¬ 
stituted a new for the old flint, and furnishing the pan with 
fresh priming, before our hero could well understand the pro ¬ 
posed and novel arrangement so as to interpose in its arrest, he 
advanced t,o the spot where Rivers stood, apparently awaiting 
the youth’s decision, and, slapping him upon the shoulder, thus 
i ddressed him •.— 


CLOSE QUARTERS. 


197 


“ I say, Guy Rivers, the ’squire thinks you too great a black 
guard for him to handle, and leaves all the matter to me. Now, 
you see, as I’ve done that to-day which makes me just as great 
a blackguard as yoT:r-;elf, I stand up in his place. So here’s 
for you. You needn’t make any excuse, and say you have no 
quarrel with me. for, as I am to handle you in his place, you 
will consider me to say everything that he has said—-every 
word of it; and, in addition to that, if more be necessary, you 
must know I think you a mere skunk, and I’ve been wanting 
to have a fair lick at you for a monstrous long season.” 

“You shall not interfere, Forrester, and in this manner, on 
any pretence, for the shelter of the coward, who, having insulted 
me, now refuses to give me satisfaction. If you have anything 
to ask at my hands, when I have done with him, I shall be 
ready for you,” was the reply of Rivers. 

“ You hear that ’squire ? I told you so. He has called you 
a coward, and you will have to fight him at last ” 

“ I do not see the necessity for that, Forrester, and beg that 
you will undertake no fighting on my account. When my hon¬ 
or is in danger, I am man enough to take care of it myself; and, 
when I am not, my friend can do me no service by taking my 
place. As for this felon, the hangman for him—nobody else.” 

Maddened, not less by the cool determination of Colleton 
than by the contemptuous conclusion of his speech, Rivers, 
without a word, sprang fiercely upon him with a dirk, drawn 
from his bosom with concerted motion as he made the leap — 
striking, as he approached, a blow at the unguarded breast of 
the youth, which, from the fell and fiendish aim and effort, 
must have resulted fatally had he not been properly prepared 
for some such attempt. Ralph was in his prime, however, of 
vigorous make and muscle, and well practised in the agile 
sports and athletic exercises of woodland life. He saw the in¬ 
tent in the mischievous glance of his enemy’s eye, in time to 
guard himself against it; and, suddenly changing his position, 
as the body of his antagonist Avas nearly upon him, he eluded 
the blow, and the force and impetus employed in the effort bore 
the assassin forward Before he could arrest his own progress, 
the youth had closed in upon him, and by a dexterous use of 
his foot, in a manner well known to he American woodman 


198 


GUY RIVERS. 


Rivers, without being able to interpose the slightest obstacle to the 
new direction thus given him, was forcibly hurled to the ground. 

Before he could recover, the youth was upon him. His 
blood was now at fever-heat, for he had not heard the taunts 
upon his courage, from all around him, with indifference, though 
he had borne them with a laudable show of patience throughout. 
His eye shot forth fires almost as malignant as those of his op¬ 
ponent. One of his hands was wreathed in the neckcloth of his 
prostrate foe, while the other was employed in freeing his own 
dirk from the encumbrances of his vest. This took little time, 
and he would not have hesitated in the blow, when the inter¬ 
position of those present bore him off, and permitted rhe fallen 
and stunned man to recover his feet. It was at this moment 
that the honest friendship of Forrester was to be tried and test¬ 
ed. The sympathies of those around were most generally with 
the ruffian; and the aspect of affairs was something unlucky, 
when the latter was not only permitted to recommence the 
attack, but when the youth was pinioned to the ground by 
others of the gang, and disarmed of all defence. The moment 
was perilous; and, whooping like a savage, Forrester leaped 
in between, dealing at the same time his powerful blows from 
one to the other, right and left, and making a clear field around 
the youth. 

“Fair play is all I ask, boys—fair play, and we can lick the 
whole of you, Hurra for old Carolina. Who’s he says a word 
against her ? Let him stand up, and be knocked down. How’s 
it, ’squire — you an’t hurt, I reckon? I hope not; if you are, 
I’ll have a shot with Rivers myself on the spot.” 

But Munro interposed : “We have had enough outcry, For¬ 
rester. Let us have no more. Take this young man along 
with you, or it will be worse for him.” 

“Well, Wat Munro, all tho ’squire wants is fair play—fair 
play for both of us, and we’ll take the field, man after man. I 
tell you what, Munro, in our parts the chickens are always 
hatched with spurs, and the children born with their eye-teeth. 
We know something, too, about whipping our weight in wild¬ 
cats ; and until the last governor of our state had all the bears 
killed, because they were getting civilized, we could wrestle 
with ’em nan for man, and throw seven out of ten. 


CONSPIRACY — WARNING. 


199 


CHAPTER XVI. 

CONSPIRACY — WARNING. 

Ralph was not permitted to return to the village that night 
—his sturdy friend Forrester insisting upon his occupying with 
him the little lodge of his own, resting on the borders of the set¬ 
tlement, and almost buried in the forest. Here they conversed 
until a late hour, previous to retiring; the woodman entering 
more largely into his own history than he had done before. He 
suffered painfully from the occurrences of the day: detailed the 
manner in which he had been worked upon by Munro to take 
part in the more fearful transaction with the guard—how the 
excitement of the approaching conflict had defeated his capa¬ 
cities of thought, and led him on to the commission of so great 
apart of the general offence. Touching the initial affair with 
the squatters, he had no compunctious scruples. That was all 
fair game in his mode of thinking, and even had blood been 
spilled more freely than it was, he seemed to think he should 
have had no remorse. But on the subject of the murder of the 
guard, for so he himself called his crime, his feeling was so in¬ 
tensely agonizing that Ralph, though *as much shocked as him¬ 
self at the events, found it necessary to employ sedative lan¬ 
guage, and to forbear all manner of rebuke. 

At an early hour of the morning, they proceeding in company 
to the village — Forrester having to complete certain arrange¬ 
ments prior to his flight; which, by the advice of Colleton, he had 
at once determined upon. Such, no doubt, was the determination 
of many among them not having those resources, in a familiari¬ 
ty with crime and criminal associations, which were common to 
Munro and Rivers. 

The aspect of the village was somewhat varied from its wont 


:200 


GUY RIVERS. 


Its people were not so far gone in familiarity with occurrences 
like those of the preceding day, as to be utterly insensible to 
their consequences; and a chill inertness pervaded all faces, 
and set at defiance every endeavor on the part of the few who 
had led, to put the greater number in better spirits, either with 
themselves or those around them. They were men habituated, 
it may be, to villanies; but of a petty description, and far be¬ 
neath that which we have just recorded. It is not, therefore, 
to be wondered at, if. when the momentary impulse had passed 
away, they felt numerous misgivings. They were all assem¬ 
bled, as on the day befoie—their new allies with them — arms 
in their hands, but seemingly without much disposition for their 
use. They sauntered unconsciously about the village, in little 
groups or individually, without concert or combination, and 
with suspicious or hesitating eye. Occasionally, the accents of 
a single voice broke the general silence, though but for a mo¬ 
ment ; and then, with a startling and painful influence, which 
imparted a still deeper sense of gloom to the spirits of all. It 
appeared to come laden with a mysterious and • (range terror, 
and the speaker, aptly personifying the Fear in Collins’s fine 
“ Ode on the Passions,” “ shrunk from the sound himself had 
made.” 

Ralph, in company with Forrester, made his appearance 
among the squatters while thus situated. Seeing them armed 
as on the previous day, he was apprehensive of some new evil; 
and as he approached the several stray groups, made knowm 
his apprehensions to his companion in strong language. He 
was not altogether assured of Forrester’s own compunction, and 
the appearance of those around almost persuaded him to doubt 
his sincerity. 

“Why are these people assembled, Forrester — is there any¬ 
thing new—is there more to be done—more bloodletting— 
more crime and violence — are they still unsatisfied ?” 

The earnestness of the inquirer was coupled with a sternness 
of eye and warmth of accent which had in them much, that, 
under other circumstances and at other times, would have been 
sorely offensive to the sturdy woodman; whose spirit, anything 
in the guise of rebuke would have been calculated to vex. But 
he was burdened with thoughts at the moment, which, in a suf- 


CONSPIRACY — WARNING. 201 

ficiently monitorial character, humbled him with a scourge that 
lacerated at every stroke. 

“ God forbid, ’squire, that more harm should be done. There 
h;.3 been more done already Ihan any of us shall well get rid 
of. I wish to heaven I had taken caution from you. But I 
was mad, ’squire, mad to the heart, and became the willing tool 
of men not so mad, but more evil than I! God forbid, sir, that 
there should be more harm done.” 

“ Then why this assembly ? Why do the villagers, and these 
ragged and savage fellows whom you have incorporated among 
you — why do they lounge about idly, with arms in their hands, 
aud faces that still seem bent on mischief?” 

“Because, ’squire, it’s impossible to do otherwise. We can’t 
go to work, for the life of us, if we wished to; we all feel that 
we have gone too far, and those, whose own consciences do not 
trouble them, are yet too much troubled by fear of the conse¬ 
quences to be in any hurry to take up handspike or hammer 
again in this quarter of the world.” 

The too guilty man had indeed spoken his own and the con¬ 
dition of the people among whom he lived. They could now 
see and feel the fruits of that rash error which had led them 
on; but their consciousness came too late for retrieval, and 
they now wondered, with a simplicity truly surprising to those 
who know with what facility an uneducated and warm people 
may be led to their own ruin, that this consciousness had not 
come to them before. Ralph, attended by Forrester, advanced 
among the crowd. As he did so, all eyes were turned upon 
him, and a sullen conference took place, having reference to 
himself, between Munro and a few of the ringleaders. This 
conference was brief, and as soon as it was concluded, the land¬ 
lord turned to the youth, and spoke as follows:— 

“ You were a witness, Mr. Colleton, of this whole transaction, 
and can say whether the soldiers were not guilty of the most 
unprovoked assault upon us, without reason or right.” 

“ I can say no such thing, sir,” was his reply. “ On the con¬ 
trary, I am compelled to say, that a more horrible and unjusti¬ 
fiable transaction I never witnessed. I must say that they 
were rot the aggressors.” 

“ How unjustifiable, young sir?” quickly and sternly retorted 

9 * 


202 


GUY RIVERS. 


the landlord “ Did you not behold us ridden down by the 
soldiery ? di 1 they not attack us in our trenches — in our castle 
as it were? and have we not a right to defend our castle fiom 
assailants? They took the adventure at their peril, and suffered 
accordingly.” 

“ I know not what your title may be to the grounds you have 
defended so successfaliy, and which you have styled your castle, 
nor shall I scop to inquire. I do not believe that your right 
either gave you possession or authorized your defence in this 
cruel manner. The matter, however, is between you and your 
country. My own impressions are decidedly against you; and 
were I called upon for an opinion as to your mode of asserting 
your pretended right, I should describe it as brutal and barba¬ 
rous, and wholly without excuse or justification, whether exam¬ 
ined by divine or human laws.” 

“ A sermon, a sermon from the young preacher, come, boys, 
give him Old Hundred. Really, sir, you promise almost as well 
as the parson you heard yesterday; and will take lessons from 
him, if advised by me. But go on — come to a finish — mount 
upon the stump, where you can be better seen and heard.” 

The cheek of the youth glowed with indignation at the speech 
of the ruffian, but he replied with a concentrated calmness that 
was full of significance : — 

“ You mistake me greatly, sir, if you imagine I am to be pro¬ 
voked into contest with you by any taunt which you can utter. 
I pride myself somewhat in the tact with which I discover a 
ruffian, and having, at an early period of your acquaintance, 
seen what you were, I can not regard you in any other than a 
single point of view. Were you not what I know you to be, 
whatever might have been the difference of force between us, I 
should ere this have driven my dirk into your throat.” 

“ Why, that’s something like, now—that’s what I call manly. 
You do seem to have some pluck in you, young sir, though you 
might make more use of it. I like a fellow that can feel when 
he’s touched; and don’t think a bit the worse of you that you 
think ill of me, and tell me so. But that’s not the thing now. 
We must talk of other matters. You must answer a civil ques¬ 
tion or two for the satisfaction of the company. We want to 
know, sir, if we may apprehend any interference on your part 


CONSPIRACY — WARNING. 203 

between us and the state. Will you tell the authorities what 
you saw V* 

The youth made no answer to this question, but turning con¬ 
temptuously upon his heel, was about to leave the circle, around 
which the assembly, in visible anxiety for his reply, was now 
beginning to crowd. 

“ Stay, young master, not so fast. You must give us some 
answer before you are off. Let us know what we are to expect. 
Whether, if called upon by any authority, you would reveal 
what you know of this business V' was the further inquiry of 
Munro. 

“I certainly should — every word of it. I should at once say 
that you were all criminal, and describe you as the chief actor 
and instigator in this unhappy affair.” 

The response of Colleton had been unhesitating and immedi¬ 
ate ; and having given it, he passed through the throng and left 
the crowd, which, sullenly parting, made way for him in front. 
Guy Rivers, in an under tone, muttered in the ear of Munro as 
he left the circle : — 

“ That, by the eternal God, he shall never do. Are you sat¬ 
isfied now of the necessity of silencing him ?” 

Munro simply made a sign of silence, and took no seeming 
note of his departure; but his determination was made, and 
there was now no obstacle in that quarter to the long-contem¬ 
plated vengeance of his confederate. 

While this matter was in progress among the villagers, Coun¬ 
sellor Pippin vexed himself and his man Hob not a little with 
inquiries as to the manner in which he should contrive to make 
some professional business grow out of it. He could not well 
expect any of the persons concerned, voluntarily to convict 
themselves; and his thoughts turned necessarily upon Ralph as 
the only one on whom he could rest his desire in tills particular. 
We have seen with what indifferent success his own adventure 
on the field of action, and when the danger was all well over, 
was attended; but he had heard and seen enough to persuade 
himself that but little was wanting, without appearing in the 
matter himself, to induce Ralph to prosecute Rivers for the at? 
tempt upon his life, a charge which, in his presence, he had 
heard him make. He calculated in this way to secure himself 


204 


GUY RIVERS. 


in two jobs — as magistrate, to institute the initial proceedings 
by which Rivers was to be brought to trial, and the expense of 
which Ralph was required to pay—and, as an attorney-at-law, 
and the only one of which the village might boast, to have the 
satisfaction of defending and clearing the criminal. 

Such being the result of his deliberations, he despatched Hob 
with a note to Ralph, requesting to see him at the earliest pos¬ 
sible moment, upon business of the last importance. Hob ar¬ 
rived at the inn just at the time when, in the court in front, 
Ralph, in company with the woodman, had joined the villagers 
there assembled. Hob, who from long familiarity with the 
habits of his master, had acquired something of a like disposi¬ 
tion, felt exceedingly anxious to hear what was going on; but 
knowing his situation, and duly valuing his own importance as 
the servant of so great a man as the village-lawyer, he con¬ 
ceived it necessary to proceed with proper caution. 

It is more than probable that his presence would have been 
unregarded had he made his approaches freely and with confi¬ 
dence ; but Hob was outrageously ambitious, and mystery was 
delightful. He went to work in the Indian manner, and what 
with occasionally taking the cover, now of a bush, now of a 
pine tree, and now of a convenient hillock, Hob had got him¬ 
self very comfortably lodged in the recess of an old ditch, origi¬ 
nally cut to carry off a body of water which rested on what 
was now in part the public mall. Becoming interested in the 
proceedings, and hearing of the departure of Ralph, to whom 
he had been despatched, his head gradually assumed a more 
elevated position—he soon forgot his precaution, and the 
shoulders of the spy, neither the most diminutive nor graceful, 
becoming rather too protuberant, were saluted with a smart as¬ 
sault, vigorously kept up by the assailant, to whom the use of 
the hickory appeared a familiar matter. Hob roared lustily, 
and was dragged from his cover. The note was found upon 
him, and still further tended to exaggerate the hostile feeling 
which the party now entertained for the youth. Under the 
terrors of the lash, Hob confessed a great deal more than was 
true, and roused into a part forgetfulness of their offence by the 
increased prospect of its punishment, which fir: negro had un- 


CONSPIRACY — WARNING. 


205 


hesitatingly represented as near at hand, they proceeded to the 
office of the lawyer. 

It was in vain that Pippin denied all the statements of his 
negro—his note was thrust into his face; and without scruple, 
seizing upon his papers, they consigned to the flames, deed, 
process, and document — all the fair and unfair proceedings 
alike, of the lawyer, collected carefully through a busy period 
of twenty years* litigation. They would have proceeded in 
like manner to the treatment of Ralph, but that Guy Rivers 
himself interposed to allay, and otherwise direct their fury. 
The cunning ruffian well knew that Forrester would stand by 
the youth, and unwilling to incur any risk, where the game in 
another way seemed so secure, he succeeded in quieting the 
party, by claiming to himself the privilege, on the part of his 
wounded honor, of a fair field with one who had so grievously 
assailed it. Taking the landlord aside, therefore, they discuss¬ 
ed various propositions for taking the life of one hateful to the 
one person and dangerous to them all. Munro was now not un¬ 
willing to recognise the necessity of taking him off; and without 
entering into the feelings of Rivers, which were almost entirely 
personal, he gave his assent to the deed, the mode of perform¬ 
ing which was somewhat to depend upon circumstances. These 
will find their due development as we proceed. 

In the meanwhile, Ralph had returned to the village-inn, 
encountering, at the first step, upon entering the threshold, the 
person of the very interesting girl, almost the only redeeming 
spirit of that establishment. She had heard of the occurrence 
— as who, indeed, had not—and the first expression of her 
face as her eyes met those of Ralph, though with a smile, had 
in it something of rebuke for not having taken the counsel 
which she had given him on his departure from the place of 
prayer. With a gentleness strictly in character, he conversed 
m ith her for some time on indifferent topics—surprised at every 
uttered word from her lips — so musical, so true to the modest 
weaknesses of her own, yet so full of the wisdom and energy 
which are the more legitimate characteristics of the other sex. 
At length she brought him back to the subject of the recent 
strife. 

“ You must go from this plf :e, Mr. Colleton — you are not 


206 


GUY RIVERS. 


safe in this house — in this country. You can tow travel with¬ 
out inconvenience 1 ’om your late injuries, which do not appear 
to affect you; and the sooner you are gone the better for your 
safety. There are those here”—and she looked around with 
a studious caution as she spoke, while her voice sunk into a 
whisper—“who only wait the hour and the opportunity to—” 
and here her voice faltered as if she felt the imagined prospect 
—“ to put you to a merciless death. Believe me, and in your 
confident strength do not despise my warnings. Nothing but 
prudence and flight can save you.” 

“ Why,” said the youth, smiling, and taking her hand in 
reply, “ why should I fear to linger in a region, where one so 
much more -alive to its sternnesses than myself may yet dare 
to abide ? Think you, sweet Lucy, that I am less hardy, less 
fearless of the dangers and the difficulties of this region than 
yourself? You little know how much at this moment my spirit 
is willing to encounter,” and as he spoke, though his lips wore 
a smile, there was a stern sadness in his look, and a gloomy 
contraction of his brow, which made the expression one of the 
fullest melancholy. 

The girl looked upon him with an eye full of a deep, though 
unconscious interest. She seemed desirous of searching into 
that spirit which he had described as so reckless. Withdraw¬ 
ing her hand suddenly, however, as if now for the first time 
aware of its position, she replied hastily :— 

“Yet, I pray you, Mr. Colleton, let nothing make you indif¬ 
ferent to the warning I have given you. There is danger— 
more danger here to you than to me —though, to inc—” the 
tears filled in her eyes as she spoke, and her head sunk down 
on her breast with an air of the saddest self-abandonment — 
“ there is more than death.” 

The youth again took her hand. He understood too well the 
signification of her speech, and the sad sacrifice which it refer 
red to; and an interest in her fate was awakened in his bosom, 
which made him for a moment forget himself and the gentle 
Edith of his own dreams. 

“ Command me, Miss Munro, though I peril my life in your 
behalf; say that I can serve you in anything, and trust me to 
obey.” 


CONSPIRACY — WARNING. 


207 


bhe shook her head mournfully, hut without reply. Again 
he pressed Ins services, which were still refused. A little more 
firmly, however, she again urged his departure. 

“ My solicitations have no idle origin. Believe me, you are 
in danger, and have hut little time for delay. I would not thus 
hurry you, but that I would not have you perish. No, no! 
you have been gentle and kind, as few others have been, to 
the poor orphan; and, though I would still see and hear you, 
I would not that you should suffer. I would rather suffer 
myself.” 

Much of this was evidently uttered with the most childish 
unconsciousness. Her mind was obviously deeply excited with 
her fears, and when the youth assured her, in answer to her in¬ 
quiries, that he should proceed in the morning on his journey, 
she interrupted him quickly — 

“To day—to-day—now—do not delay, I pray you. You 
know not the perils which a night may bring forth.” 

When assured that he himself could perceive no cause of 
peril, and when, with a manner sufficiently lofty, he gave her 
to understand that a feeling of pride alone, if there were no 
other cause, would prevent a procedure savoring so much of 
flight, she shook her head mournfully, though saying nothing. 
In reply to his offer of service, she returned him her thanks, 
but assuring him he could do her none, she retired from the 
apartment. 


208 


GUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

REMORSE. 

During the progress of the dialogue narrated in th( conclu¬ 
sion of our last chapter, Forrester had absented himself, as 
much probably with a delicate sense of courtesy, which antici¬ 
pated some further results than came from it, as with the view 
to the consummation of some private matters of his own. He 
now returned, and signifying his readiness to Ralph, they 
mounted their horses and proceeded on a proposed ride out of 
the village, in which Forrester had promised to shoAV the youth 
a pleasanter region and neighborhood. 

This ride, however, was rather of a gloomy tendency, as its 
influences were lost in the utterance and free exhibition to 
Ralph of the mental sufferings of his companion. Naturally 
of a good spirit and temper, his heart, though strong of endur¬ 
ance and fearless of trial, had not been greatly hardened by 
the world’s circumstance. The cold droppings of the bitter 
waters, however they might have worn into, had not altogether 
petrified it; and his feelings, coupled with and at all times 
acted upon by a southern fancy, did not fail to depict to his 
own sense, and in the most lively colors, the offence of which 
he had been guilty. 

It was with a reproachful and troublesome consciousness, 
therefore, that he now addressed his more youthful companion 
on the subject so fearfully presented to his thought H-» had 
already, in their brief acquaintance, found in Ralph a firm and 
friendly adviser, and acknowledging in his person all the under¬ 
stood superiorities of polished manners and correct education, 
he did not scruple to come to him for advice in his present 
difficulties. Ralph, fully comprehending liis distress, and con¬ 
scious bow little of his fault had been premeditated,-— estima- 


REMORSE. 209 

ting, too, the many good qualities apparent in his character — 
did not withhold his counsel. 

“ I can say little to you now, Forrester, in the way of advice, 
so long as you continue to herd with the men who have already 
led you into so much mischief. You appear to me, and must 
appear to all men, while coupled with such associates, as volun- 
’ tarily ch csing your ground, and taking all the consequences of 
its position. As there would seem no necessity for your dwel¬ 
ling longer among them, you certainly do make your choice in 
thus continuing their associate.” 

“Not so much a matter of choice, now, ’squire, as you ima¬ 
gine. It was, to be sure, choice at first, but then I did not know 
the people I had to deal with; and when I did, you see, the 
circumstances were altered.” 

“ How,— by what means ?” 

“ Why, then, ’squire, you must know, and I see no reason to 
keep the thing from you, I took a liking, a short time after I 
came here, to a young woman, the daughter of one of our peo¬ 
ple, and she to me — at least so she says, and I must confess 
I’m not unwilling to believe her ; though it is difficult to say— 
these women you know—” and as he left the unfinished sen¬ 
tence, he glanced significantly to the youth’s face, with an 
expression which the latter thus interpreted — 

“ Are not, you would say, at all times to bo relied on.” 

“Why, no, ’squire — I would not exactly say that—that 
might be something too much of a speech. I did mean to say, 
from what we see daily, that it isn’t always they know their 
own minds.” 

“ There is some truth, Forrester, in the distinction, and I 
have thought so before. I am persuaded that the gentler 
sex is far less given to deceit than our own; but their opin¬ 
ions and feelings, on the other hand, are formed with infinitely 
more frequency and facility, and are more readily acted 
upon by passing and occasional influences. Their very sus¬ 
ceptibility to the most light and casual impressions, is, of itself, 
calculated to render vacillating their estimate of things and 
characters. They are creatures of such delicate construction, 
and their affections are of such like character, that, like all fine 
machinery, they are perpetually operated on by the atmosphere. 


210 


GUY RIVERS. 


the winds, the dew, and the night. The frost blights and the 
sun blisters; and a kind or stern accent elevates or depresses, 
where, with us, it might pass unheeded or unheard. 

“We are more cunning—more shy and cautious; and seldom, 
after a certain age, let our affections out of our own custody. 
We learn very soon in life — indeed, we are compelled to learn, 
in our own defence, at a very early period—to go into the 
world as if we were going into battle. We send out spies, 
keep sentinels on duty, man our defences, carry arms in our 
bosoms, which we cover with a buckler, though, with the policy 
of a court, we conceal that in turn with a silken and embroidered 
vestment. We watch every erring thought—we learn to be 
equivocal of speech; and our very hearts, as the Indians phrase 
it, are taught to speak their desires with a double tongue. We 
are perpetually on the lookout for enemies and attack; we 
dread pitfalls and circumventions, and we feel that every face 
which we encounter is a smiling deceit—every honeyed word 
a blandishment meant to betray us. These arc lessons which 
society, as at present constituted, teaches of itself. 

“With women the case is essentially different. They have 
few of these influences to pervert and mislead. They have 
nothing to do in the market-place—they arc not candidates for 
place or power—they have not the ambition which is always 
struggling for state and for self; but,with a wisdom in this, that 
might avail us wonderfully in all other respects, they are kept 
npart, as things for love and worship — domestic divinities, 
whose true altar-place is the fireside; whose true sway is 
over fond hearts, generous sensibilities, and immaculate honor. 
Where should they learn to contend with guile—to acquire 
cunning and circumspection — to guard the heart—to keep 
sweet affections locked up coldly, like mountain waters ? Shall 
we wonder that they sometimes deceive themselves rather than 
their neighbors-—that they sometimes misapprehend their own 
feelings, and mistake for love some lesis absorbing intruder, who 
but lights upon the heart for a single instant, as a bird upon his 
spray, to rest or to plume his pinions, and be off with tlio very 
next zephyr. But all this is wide of the mark, Forrester, and 
keeps you from your story.” 

“ My story isn’t much. Master Colleton, and is easily told, f 


REMORSE. 


211 


love Kate Allen, and as I said before, I believe Kate loves me; 
and though it be scarcely a sign of manliness to confess so 
much, yet I must say to you, ’squire, that I love her so very 
much that I can not do without her. 

“ I honor your avowal, Forrester, and see nothing unmanly 
or unbecoming in the sentiment you profess. On the contrary, 
such a feeling, in my mind, more truly than any other, indicates 
the presence and possession of those very qualities out of which 
true manhood is made. The creature who prides himself chiefly 
upon his insensibilities, has no more claim to be considered a 
human being than the trees that gather round us, or the rocks 
over which we travel.” 

“Well, ’squire, I believe you are right, and I am glad that 
such is your opinion, for now I shall be able to speak to you 
more freely upon this subject. Indeed, you talk about the 
thing so knowingly, that I should not'be surprised, ’squire, to 
find out that you too had something of the same sort troubling 
your heart, though here you are travelling far from home and 
among strangers.” 

The remark of Forrester was put with an air of arch inquiry. 
A slight shadow passed over and clouded the face of the youth, 
and for a moment his brow was wrinkled into sternness; but 
hastily suppressing the awakened emotion, whatever its origin 
might have been, he simply replied, in an indirect rebuke, which 
his companion very readily comprehended :— 

“ You were speaking of your heart, I believe, Forrester, and 
not of mine. If you please, we will confine ourselves to the 
one tendtory, particularly as it promises to find us sufficient 
employment of itself, without rendering it necessary that we 
should cross over to any other.” 

* It’s a true word, ’squire—the business of the one territory 
is sufficient for me, at this time, and more than I shall well get 
through with: but, though I know this, somehow or other I 
want to forget it all, if possible; and sometimes I close my eyes 
in the hope to shut out ugly thoughts.” 

“ The feeling is melancholy enough, but it is just the one 
which should test your manhood. It is not for one who has 
been all his life buffeting with the world and ill-fortune, to de¬ 
spond at every mischance or misdeed. Proceed with your nar 


212 


GUY RIVERS. 


rative; and, in providing for the future, you will be able to 
forget not a little of the past.” 

“You are right, ’squire; I will be a man, and stand my 
chance, whether good or ill, like a man, as I have always been. 
Well, as I was saying, Kate is neither unkind nor unwilling, 
and the only difficulty is with her father. He is now mighty 
fond of the needful, and won’t hear to our marriage until I have 
a good foundation, and something to go upon. It is this, you 
see, which keeps me here, shoulder to shoulder with these men, 
whom I like just as little perhaps as yourself; and it was be¬ 
cause the soldiers came upon us just as I was beginning to lay 
up a little from my earnings, that made me desperate. 1 dreaded 
to lose what I had been so long working for; and whenever the 
thought of Kate came through my brain, I grew rash and ready 
for any mischief—and this is just the way in which I ran head¬ 
long into this difficulty.” 

“ It is melancholy, Forrester, to think that, with such a feel¬ 
ing as that you profess for this young woman, you should be so 
little regardful of her peace or your own ; that you should plunge 
so madly into strife .and crime, and proceed to the commission 
of acts which not only embitter your life, but must defeat the 
very hopes and expectations for which you live.” 

“ It’s the nature of the beast,” replied the woodman, with a 
melancholy shake of the head, in a phrase which has become a 
proverb of familiar use in the South. “ It’s the nature of the 
beast, ’squire: I never seem to think about a thing until it’s all 
over, and too late to mend it. It’s a sad misfortune to have 
such a temper, and so yesterday’s work tells me much more 
forcibly than I can ever tell myself. But what am I to do, 
’squire ? that’s what I want to know. Can you say nothing to 
me which will put me in better humor — can you give me no 
advice, no consolation? Say anything—anything which will 
make me think less about this matter.” 

The conscience of the unhappy criminal was indeed busy, 
and he spoke in tones of deep, though suppressed emotion and 
energy. The youth did not pretend to console—lie well knew 
that the mental nature would have its course, and to withstand 
or arrest it would only have the effect of further provoking its 
morbidity. He replied calmly, but feelingly — 


REMORSE. 


213 


“ Your situation is unhappy, Forrester, and calls for seriouc 
reflection. It is not-for me to offer advice to one so much more 
experienced than myself. Yet my thoughts are at your service 
for what they are worth. You can not, of course, hope to re¬ 
main in the country after this; yet, in flying from that justice 
to which you will have made no atonement, you will not neces¬ 
sarily escape the consequences of your crime, which, I feel sat¬ 
isfied, will, for a long season, rest heavily upon a spirit such as 
yours. Your confederates have greatly the advantage of you 
in this particular. The fear of human penalties is with them 
the only fear. Your severest judge will be your own heart, and 
from that you may not fly. With regard to your affections, I 
can say little. I know not what may be your resources—your 
means of life, and the nature of those enterprises which, in anoth¬ 
er region, you might pursue. In the West you would he secure 
from punishment; the wants of life in the wilderness are few, 
and of easy attainment: why not marry the young woman, and 
let her fly with you to happiness and safety V* 

“And wouldn’t I do so, ’squire ?— I would be a happy fellow 
if I could. But her father will never consent. He had no hand 
in yesterday’s business, and I wonder at that too, for lie’s mighty 
apt at all such scrapes; and he will not therefore be so very 
ready to perceive the necessity of my flight — certainly not of 
hers, she being his only child; and, though a tough old sort of 
chap, he’s main fond of her.” 

“ See him about it at once, then; and, if he does not consent, 
the only difficulty is in the delay and further protraction of your 
union. It would be very easy, when you are once well settled, 
to claim her as your wife.” 

“ That’s all very true and very reasonable, ’squire; but it’s 
rather hard, this waiting. Here, for five years, have I been 
playing this sort of game, and it goes greatly against the grain 
to have to begin anew and in a new place. But here’s where 
the old buck lives. It’s quite a snug farm, as you may see. 
He’s pretty well off, and, by one little end or the other, con¬ 
trives to make it look smarter and smarter every year; but 
then he’s just as close as a corkscrew, and quite mean in his 
ways. And—there’s Kate, ’squire, looking from the window. 
Now, an’t she a sweet creature? Come, ’light—you shall see 


214 


GvJY RIVERS. 


her close. Make yourself quite at home, as I do. I make free, 
for you see the old people have all along looked upon me as a 
son, seeing that I am to he one at some time or other.” 

They were now at the entrance of as smiling a cottage as the 
lover of romance might well desire to look upon. Everything 
had a cheery, sunshiny aspect, looking life, comfort, and the 
“all in all content;” and, with a feeling of pleasure kindled 
anew in his bosom by the prospect, Ralph complied readily 
with the frank and somewhat informal invitation of his compan¬ 
ion, and was soon made perfectly at home by the freedom and 
ease which characterized the manners of the young girl who 
descended to receive them. A slight suffusion of the cheek and 
a downcast eye, upon the entrance of her lover, indicated a 
gratified consciousness on the part of the maiden which did not 
look amiss. She was seemingly a gentle, playful creature, ex¬ 
tremely young, apparently without a thought of guile, and alto¬ 
gether untouched with a solitary presentiment of the unhappy 
fortunes in store for her. 

Her mother, having made her appearance, soon employed the 
youth in occasional discourse, which furnished sufficient oppor¬ 
tunity to the betrothed to pursue their own conversation, in a 
quiet corner of the same .room, in that under-tone which, where 
lovers are concerned, is of all others the most delightful and 
emphatic. True love is always timid : he, too, as well as fear, 
is apt to “ shrink back at the sound himself has made.” His 
words are few and the tones feeble. He throws his thoughts 
into his eyes, and they speak enough for all his purposes. On 
the present occasion, however, he was dumb from other influ¬ 
ences, and the hesitating voice, ffie guilty look, the unquiet 
manner, sufficiently spoke, on the part of her lover, what his 
own tongue refused to whisper in he ears of the maiden. He 
strove, but vainly, to relate the melancholy event to which we 
have already sufficiently alluded. His words were broken and 
confused, but she gathered enough, in part, to comprehend the 
affair, though still ignorant of the precise actors and sufferers. 

The heart of Katharine was one of deep-seated tenderness, 
and it may not be easy to describe the shock which the intelli¬ 
gence gave her. She did not hear him through without ejacu¬ 
lations of horror,-sufficiently ferveat and loud to provoke the 


REMORSE. 


215 


glance of her mother, who did not, however, though turning her 
looks frequently upon the two, venture upon any inquiry, or 
offer any remark. The girl heard her lover patiently; but 
when he narrated the catastrophe, and told of the murder of 
the guard, she no longer struggled to restrain the feeling, now 
too strong for suppression. Her words broke through her lips 
quickly, as she exclaimed— 

“But you, Mark—you had no part in this matter—you lent 
no aid—you gave no hand. You interfered, I am sure you did, 
to prevent the murder of the innocent men. Speak out, Mark, 
and tell me the truth, and relieve me from these horrible appre¬ 
hensions.” 

As she spoke, her small hand rested upon his wrist with a 
passionate energy, in full accordance with the spirit of her lan¬ 
guage. The head of the unhappy man sank upon his breast; 
his eyes, dewily suffused, were cast upon the floor, and he spoke 
nothing, or inarticulately, in reply. 

“ What means this silence—what am I to believe—what am 
I to think, Mark Forrester 1 You can not have given aid to 
Ihose had men, whom you yourself despise. You have not so 
far forgotten yourself and me as to go on with that wicked man 
Rivers, following his direction, to take away life—to spill blood 
as if it were water! You have not done this, Mark. Tell me 
at once that I am foolish to fear it foi an instant—that it is 
not so.” 

He strove, but in vain, to reply. The inarticulate sounds 
came forth chokingly from his lips without force or meaning. 
He strode impatiently up and down the apartment, followed by 
the young and excited maiden, who unconsciously pursued him 
with repeated inquiries; while her mother, awakened to the 
necessity of interference, vainly strove to find a solution of the 
mystery, and to quiet both of the parties. 

“Will you not speak to me, Mark ? Can you not, will you 
not answer ]” 

The unhappy man shook his head, in a perplexed and irri¬ 
tated manner, indicating his inability to reply—but concluding 
with pointing his finger impatiently to Ralph, who stood up, a 
surprised and anxious spectator of the scene. The maiden 
seemed to comprehend the intimation, and with an energy and 


GUT RIVERS = 


216 

boldness that would not well describe her accustomed habit— 
with a hurried step, crossed the apartment to where stood the 
youth. Her eye was quick and searching—her words broken, 
but with an impetuous flow, indicating the anxiety which, while 
it accounted for, sufficiently excused the abruptness of her ad¬ 
dress, she spoke: — 

“Do, sir, say that he had no hand in it—that he is free from 
the stain of blood ! Speak for him, sir, I pray you; tell me— 
he will not tell himself!” 

The old lady now sought to interpose, and to apologize for 
her daughter. 

“Why, Kate, Katharine—forgive her, sir ; Kate—Katha¬ 
rine, my dear — you forget. You ask questions of the stranger 
without any consideration.” 

But she spoke to an unconscious auditor; and Forrester, 
though still almost speechless, now interposed: — 

“ Let her ask, mother — let her ask—let her know it all. He 
can say what I can not. He can tell all. Speak out, ’squire — 
speak out; don’t fear for me. It must come, and who can bet¬ 
ter tell of it than you, who know it all ?” 

Thus urged, Ralph, in a few words, related the occurrence. 
Though carefully avoiding the use of epithet or phrase which 
might color with an increased odium the connection and conduct 
of Forrester with the affair, the offence admitted of so little 
apology or extenuation, that the delicacy with which the de¬ 
tails were narrated availed but little in its mitigation; and an 
involuntary cry burst from mother and daughter alike, to which 
the hollow ^roan that came from the lips of Forrester furnished 
a fitting eci o. 

“And this is all true, Mark—must I believe all this?” was 
the inquiry of the young girl, after a brief interval. There was 
a desperate precipitance in the reply of Forrester:— 

“True — Katharine—true; every word of it is true. Do 
you not see it written in my face ? Am I not choked—do not 
my knees tremble? and my hands—look for yourself—are 
they not covered with blood?” 

The youth interposed, and for a moment doubted the sanity 
of his companion. He had spoken in figure — a mode of speech, 
which it is a mistake in rhetoricians to ascribe only to an arti- 


REMORSE. 


217 


ficial origin, during a state of mental quiet. Deep passion and 
strong excitements, we are bold to say, employ metaphor large¬ 
ly ; and, upon an inspection of the criminal records of any 
country, it will be found that the most common narrations from 
persons deeply wrought upon by strong circumstances are 
abundantly stored with the evidence of what we assert. 

“ And how came it, Mark ?” was the inquiry of the maiden , 
“ and why did you this thing V * 

“ Ay, you may well ask, and wonder. I can not tell you. I 
was a fool — I was mad ! I knew not what. I did. From one 
thing I went on to another, and I knew nothing of what had 
been done until all was done. Some devil was at my elbow — 
some devil at my heart. I feel it there still; I am not yet free. 
I could do more — I could go yet farther. I could finish the 
damned work by another crime; and no crime either, since I 
should be the only victim, and well deserving a worse punish¬ 
ment.” 

The offender was deeply excited, and felt poignantly. For 
some time it tasked all the powers of Ralph’s mind, and the 
seductive blandishments of the maiden herself, to allay the 
fever of his spirit; when, at length, he was something restored, 
the dialogue was renewed by an inquiry of the old lady as to 
the future destination of her anticipated son-in-law, for whom, 
indeed, she entertained a genuine affection. 

“ And what is to be the end of all this, Mark ? What is it 
your purpose to do — where will you fly?” 

“ To the nation, mother — where else? I must fly some¬ 
where—give myself up to justice, or—” and he paused in the 
sentence so unpromisingly begun, while his eyes rolled with un¬ 
accustomed terrors, and his voice grew thick in his throat. 

“Or what—what mean you by that word, that look, Mark? 
I do not understand you; why speak you in this way, and t} 
me ?” exclaimed the maiden, passionately interrupting him in 
a speech, which, though strictly the creature of his morbid 
spirit and present excitement, was perhaps unnecessarily and 
something too wantonly indulged in. 

“Forgive me, Katharine—dear Katharine—but you little 
know the madness and the misery at my heart.” 

“ And have you no thought of mine, Mark ? this deed of yours 


218 


GUY RIYS3S. 


has brought misery, if not madness, to it too; and speech like 
this might well be spared us now !” 

“ It is this very thought, Kate, that I have made you misera^ 
ble, when I should have striven only to make you happy. The 
thought., too, that I must leave you, to see you perhaps never 
again — these unman—these madden me, Katharine; and I 
feel desperate like the man striving with his brother upon the 
plank in the broad ocean.” 

“ And why part, Mark ? I see not this necessity !” 

“Would you have me stay and perish 1 ? would you behold 
me, dragged perhaps from your own arms before the stern 
judge, and to a dreadful death ? It will be so if I stay much 
longer. The state will not suffer this thing to pass over. The 
crime is too large — too fearful. Besides this, the Pony Club 
have lately committed several desperate offences, which have 
already attracted the notice of the legislature. This very guard 
had been ordered to disperse them; and this affair will bring 
down a sufficient force to overrun all our settlements, and they 
may even penetrate the nation itself, where we might otherwise 
find shelter. There will be no safety for me.” 

The despondence of the woodman increased as he spoke; 
and the young girl, as if unconscious of all spectators, in the 
confiding innocence of her heart, exclaimed, while her head 
sunk upon his shoulder :— 

“ And why, Mark, may we not all fly together 1 There will 
be no reason now to remain here, since the miners are all to be 
dispersed.” 

“Well said, Kate—well said—” responded a voice at the 
entrance of the apartment, at the sound of which the person 
addressed started with a visible trepidation, which destroyed 
all her previous energy of manner; “it is well thought on 
Kate; there will, sure enough, be very little reason now foi 
any of us to remain, since this ugly business; and the only 
question is as to what quarter we shall go. There is, however 
just as little reason for our flight in company with Mark For¬ 
rester.' ’ 

It was the father of the maiden who spoke — one who waa 
the arbiter ;f her destinies, and so much the dictator in hi* 
household and over his family, that from his decision and mj- 


REMORSE. 


thority there was suffered no appeal. Without pausing for a 
reply, he proceeded :— 

“Our course, Mark, must now lie separate. You will take 
your route, and I mine ; we can not take them together. As for 
my daughter, she can not take up with you, seeing your present 
condition. Your affairs are not as they were when I consented 
to your engagement; therefore, the least said and thought about 
past matters, the better.” 

“ But—” was the beginning of a reply from the sad and dis¬ 
carded lover, in which he was not suffered to proceed. The 
old man was firm, and settled further controversy in short 
order. 

“Ko talk, Mark — seeing that it’s no use, and there’s no oc¬ 
casion for it. It must be as I say. I cannot permit of Kate’s 
connection with a man in your situation, who the very next 
moment may be brought to the halter and bring shame upon 
her. Take your parting, and try to forget old times, my good 
fellow. I think well of, and am sorry for you, Mark, but I can 
do nothing. The girl is my only child, and I must keep her 
from harm if I can.” 

Mark battled the point with considerable warmth and vigor, 
and the scene was something further protracted, but need not 
here be prolonged. The father was obdurate, and too much 
dreaded by the members of his family to admit of much prayer 
or pleading on their part. Apart from this, his reason, though 
a stern, was a wise and strong one. The intercession of Colle¬ 
ton, warmly made, proved equally unavailing; and after a brief 
but painful parting with the maiden, Forrester remounted his 
horse, and, in company with the youth, departed for the village. 
Bu l . the adieus of the lovers, in this instance, were not destined 
to be the last. In the narrow passage, in which, removed from 
all sight and scrutiny, she hung droopingly, like a storm-beaten 
flower, upon his bosom, he solicited, and not unsuccessfully, a 
private and a parting interview. 

“ To-night, then, at the old sycamore, as the moon rises,” he 
whispered in her ear, as sadly and silently she withdrew from 
liis embrace. 


220 


GUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XT Ill. 

PARTING AND FLIGHT. 

With Ralph, the unhappy woodman, thus even deir.ed to 
hope, returned, more miserable than before, to the village of 
Chestatee. The crowd there had been largely diminished. 
The more obnoxious among the offenders — those who, having 
taken the most prominent part in the late affair, apprehended 
the severest treatment—had taken themselves as much out of 
sight as possible. Even Munro and Rivers, with a.!i their hardi¬ 
hood, were no longer to be seen, and those still lingering in the 
village were such as under no circumstances might well provoke 
suspicion of “ subtle deed and counter enterpriss.” They were 
the fat men, the beef of society—loving long speeches and 
goodly cheer. The two friends, for so we may call them, were 
left almost in the exclusive possession of the hotel, and without 
observation discussed their several plans of departure. For¬ 
rester had determined to commence his journey that very night; 
while Ralph, with what might seem headstrong rashness, chose 
the ensuing day for a like purpose. 

But the youth was not without his reasons for this determina¬ 
tion. He knew perfectly well that he was in peril, but fell also 
that this peril would be met with much more difficulty by night 
than by day. Deeming himself secure, comparatively speaking, 
while actually in the village, he felt that it would be safer to 
remain there another night, than by setting off at mid-day, en¬ 
counter the unavoidable risk of either pursuing his course 
through the night in that dangerous neighborhood, where every 
step which he took might be watched, or be compelled to stop 
at some more insulated position, in which there must be fur less 
safety. He concluded, therefore, to set off at early dawn on the 


PARTING AND PLIGHT. 


221 


ensuing morning, and calculated, with the advantage of daylight 
all the way, through brisk riding, to put himself by evening be¬ 
yond the reach of his enemies. That he was not altogether 
permitted to pursue this course, was certainly not through any 
neglect of preparatory arrangement. 

The public table at the inn on that day was thinly attended; 
and the repast was partaken by all parties in comparative si¬ 
lence. A few words were addressed by Colleton to Lucy Mun- 
ro, but they were answered, not coldly, but sparingly, and her 
replies were entirely wanting in their usual spirit. Still, her 
locks signified for him the deepest interest, and a significant 
motion of the finger, which might have been held to convey a 
warning, was all that he noted of that earnest manner which 
had gratified his self-esteem in her habit heretofore. The day 
vras got through with difficulty by all parties; and as evening 
approached, Forrester, having effected all his arrangements 
without provoking observation, in the quiet and privacy of the 
youth's chamber, bade him farewell, cautioning him at the same 
time against all voluntary risk, and reminding him of the neces¬ 
sity, while in that neighborhood, of keeping a good lookout. 
Their courses lay not so far asunder but that they might, for a 
time, have proceeded together, and with more mutual advan¬ 
tage ; but the suggestions and solicitations of Forrester on this 
subject were alike disregarded by Ralph, with what reason we 
may not positively say, but it is possible that it arose from a 
prudential reference to the fact that the association of one fly¬ 
ing from justice was not exactly such as the innocent should 
desire. And this was reason enough. 

They separated, and the youth proceeded to the preparation 
for his own contemplated departure. His pistols were in readi¬ 
ness, with his dirk, on the small table by the side of his bed; 
his portmanteau lay alike contiguous; and before seeking his 
couch, which he did at an early hour, he himself had seen that 
his good steed had been well provided with corn and fodder. 
The sable groom, too, whose attentions to the noble animal 
from the first, stimulated by an occasional bit of silver, had 
been unremitted, was now further rewarded, and promised 
faithfully to be in readiness at any hour. Thus, all things ar¬ 
ranged, Ralph returned to his chamber, and without removing 


22°. 


GUY RIVERS. 


his dress, wrapping his cloak around him, he threw himself upon 
his couch, and addressed himself to those slumbers which were 
destined to be of no very long continuance. 

Forrester, in the meanwhile, had proceeded with all the im¬ 
patience of a lover to the designated place of tryst, under the 
giant sycamore, the sheltering limbs and leaves of which, on 
sundry previous occasions, had ministered to a like purpose. 
The place was not remote, or at least would not be so consid¬ 
ered in country estimation, from the dwelling of the maiden; 
and was to be reached from the latter spot by a circuitous pas¬ 
sage through a thick wood, which covered the distance between 
entirely. The spot chosen for the meeting was well known to 
both parties, and we shall not pretend, at this time of day, to 
limit the knowledge of its sweet fitness for the purposes of 
love, to them alone. They had tasted of its sweets a thousand 
times, and could well understand and appreciate that air of 
romantic and fairy-like seclusion wffiich so much distinguished 
it, and which served admirably in concert with the uses to 
which it was now appropriated. The tree grew within and 
surmounted a little hollow, formed by the even and combined 
natural descents, to that common centre, of four hills beautifully 
grouped, which surrounded and completely fenced it in. Their 
descents were smooth and even, without a single abruptness, to 
the bottom, in the centre of which rose the sycamore, which, 
from its own situation, conferred the name of Sycamore Hollow 
on the sweet spot upon which it stood. A spring, trickling from 
beneath its roots, shaded by its folding branches from the thirsty 
heats of the summer sun, kept up a low and continuous prattle 
with the pebbles over which it made its way, that consorted 
sweetly with the secluded harmonies that overmantled, as with 
a mighty wing, the sheltered place. 

Scenes like these are abundant enough in the southern coun¬ 
try ; and by their quiet, unobtrusive, and softer beauties, would 
seem, and not inefficiently or feebly, to supply in most respects 
the wants of those bolder characteristics, in which nature in 
those regions is confessedly deficient. Whatever may be the 
want of southern scenery in stupendousness or sublimity, it is, 
we are inclined to believe, more than made up in those thousand 
quiet and wooing charms of location, which seem designed ex- 


PARTING AND FLIGHT. 


223 


pressly for the hamlet and the cottage—the evening dance— 
the mid-day repose and rural banquet—and all those number¬ 
less practices of a small and ■well-intentioned society, which 
win the affections into limpid and living currents, touched for 
ever, here and there, by the sunshine, and sheltered in their 
repose by overhanging leaves and flowers, for ever fertile and 
for ever fresh They may not occasion a feeling of solemn 
awe, but they enkindle cne of admiring affection; and where 
the mountain and the bald rock would be productive of emo¬ 
tions only of strength and sternness, their softer featurings of 
brawling brook, bending and variegated shrubbery, wild flower, 
gadding vine, and undulating hillock, mould the contemplative 
spirit into gentleness and love. The scenery of the South below 
the mountain regions, seldom impresses at first, but it grows 
upon acquaintance; and in a little while, where once all things 
looked monotonous and unattractive, we learn to discover sweet 
influences that ravish us from ourselves at every step we take, 
into worlds and wilds, where all is fairy-like, wooing, and un¬ 
changingly sweet. 

The night, though yet Avithout a moon, was beautifully clear 
and cloudless. The stars had come out with all their brightness 
— a soft zephyr played drowsily and fitfully among the tops of 
the shrubbery, that lay, as it were, asleep on the circling hill¬ 
tops around; while the odors of complicated charm from a 
thousand floral knots, which had caught blooms from the rain¬ 
bows, and dyed themselves in their stolen splendors, thickly 
studding the wild and matted grass which sustained them, 
brought along with them even a stronger influence than the 
rest of the scene, and might have taught a ready lesson of love 
to much sterner spirits than the two, now so unhappy, who were 
there to take their parting an' 3 last embrace. 

The swift motion of a galloping steed was heard, and Forres¬ 
ter was at the place and hour of appointment. In mournful 
mood, he threw himself at the foot of one of the hills, upon one 
of the tufted roots of the huge tree which sheltered the little 
hollow, and resigned himself to a somewhat bitter survey of his 
own condition, and of the privations and probable straits into 
which his rash thoughtlessness had so unhappily involved him. 
His horse, docile and well-trained, stood unfastened in the 


2:24 


GUY riVEBS. 


tliicket, cropping the yourg and tender herbage at son e little 
distance; but so habituated to rule that no other security than 
his own will was considered by his master necessary for his 
continued presence. The lover waited not long. Desceuding 
the hill, through a narrow pathway one side of the wood, well 
known and frequently trodden by both, he beheld the approach 
of the maiden, and hurried forward to receive her. 

The terms upon which they had so long stood forbade con¬ 
straint, and put at defiance all those formalities which, under 
other circumstances, might have grown out of the meeting. 
She advanced without hesitancy, and the hand of her lover 
grasped that which she extended, his arm passed about her, his 
lip was fastened to her own without hiudcrance, and, in that 
one sweet embrace, in that one moment of blissful forgetfulness, 
all other of life’s circumstances had ceased to afflict. 

But they were not happy even at that moment of delight and 
illusion. The gentler spirit of the maiden’s sex was uppermost, 
and the sad story of his crime, which at their last meeting had 
been told her, lay with heavy influence at her heart. She was 
a gentle creature, and though dwelling in a wilderness, such is 
the prevailing influence upon female character, of the kind of 
education acquirable in the southern,—or, we may add, and 
thus perhaps furnish the reason for an/ peculiarity in this 
respect, the slave-holding states—that she partook in a large 
degree of that excessive delicacy, as well of spirit as of person, 
which, while a marked characteristic of that entire region, is 
apt to become of itself a disease, exhibiting itself too frequently 
in a nervousness and timidity that unfit its owner for the ruder 
necessities of life, and permit it to abide only under its more 
serene and summer aspects. The tale of blood, and its awful 
consequences, were perpetually recurring to her imagination. 
Her fancy described and dwelt upon its details, her thoughts 
wove it into a thousand startling tissues, until, though believing 
his crime unpremeditated, she almost shrank from the embrace 
of her lover, because of the blood so recently upon his hands. 
Placing her beside him upon the seat he had occupied, he ten¬ 
derly rebuked her gloomy manner, while an inward and painful 
consciousness of its cause gave to his voice a hesitating tremor, 
and his eye, heretofore unquailing at any glance, no longer 


PARTING AND FLIGHT. 225 

bold, now shrank downcast before the tearful emphasis of 
hers. 

“You have come, Kate—come, according to your promise, 
yet you wear not loving looks. Your eye is vacant—your 
heart, it beats sadly and hurriedly beneath my hand, as if tlier a 
were gloomy and vexatious thoughts within.” 

“ And. should I not bo sad, Mark, and should you not be sad 1 
Gloom and sorrow befit our situations alike; though for you I 
feel more than for myself. I think not so much of our parting, 
as of your misfortune in having partaken of this crime. There 
is to me but little occasion for grief in the temporary separation 
which I am sure will precede our final union. But this dread¬ 
ful deed, Mark—it is this that makes me sad. The knowledge 
that you, whom I thought too gentle wantonly to crush the 
crawling insect, should have become the slayer of men — of 
innocent men, too—makes my heart bleed within, and my eyes 
fill; and when I think of it, as indeed I now think of little 
else, and feel that its remorse and all its consequences must 
haunt you for many years, I almost think, with my father, that 
it would be better we should see each other no more. I think 
I could see you depart, knowing that it was for ever, without a 
tear, were this sin not upon your head.” 

“Your words are cruel, Kate; but you can not speak to my 
spirit in language more severe than it speaks momentarily to 
itself. I never knew anything of punishment before ; and the 
first lesson is a bitter one. Your words touch me but little now, 
as the tree, when the axe has once girdled it, has no feeling for 
any further stroke. Forbear then, dear Kate, as you love 
yourself. Brood not upon a subject that brings pain with it to 
your own spirit, and has almost ceased, except in its conse¬ 
quences, to operate upon mine. Let us now speak of those 
things which concern you nearly, and me not a little—of the 
only thing, which, besides this deed of death, troubles my 
thought at this moment. Let us speak of our future hope—if 
hope there may be for me, after the stern sentence which your 
lips uttered in part even now.” 

“It was for you—for your safety, believe me, Mark, that I 
spoke; my own heart was wrung with the language of my lips 
—the language of my cooler thought. I spoke only for your 

10 * 


22(3 


GUY RIVERS. 


safety and not for myself. Could — I again repeat — eo dd this 
deed be undone—could you be free from the rsproacli and 
the punishment, I would be content, though the strings of 
my heart cracked with its own doom, to forego all claim upon 
you—to give you up—to give up my own hope of happiness for 
ever.” 

Iler words were passionate, and at their close her head sunk 
upon his shoulder, while her tears gushed forth without restraint, 
and in defiance of all her efforts. The heart of the woodman 
was deeply and painfully affected, and the words refused to 
leave his lips, while a kindred anguish shook his manly frame, 
and rendered it almost a difficulty with him to sustain the slight 
fabric of hers. With a stern effort, however, he recovered 
himself, and reseating her upon the bank from which, in ihe 
agitation of the moment, they had both arisen, he endeavored 
to soothe her spirit, by unfolding his plan of future life. 

“My present aim is the nation—I shall cross the Chestatee 
river to-morrow, and shall push at once for the forest of Etowee, 
and beyond the Etowee river. I know the place well, and 
have been through it before. There 1 shall linger until I hear 
all the particulars of this affair in its progress, and determine 
upon my route accordingly. If the stir is great, as I reckon it 
will be, I shall push into Tennessee, and perhaps go for the 
Mississippi. Could I hope that your father would consent to 
remove, I should at once do this and make a settlement, where, 
secure from interruption and all together, we might live happily 
and honorably for the future.' 

“ And why not do so now—why stop at all among the Cliero- 
kees? Why not go at once into Mississippi, and begin the 
world, as you propose in the end to do ?” 

“ What! and leave you for ever—now Kate, you are indeed 
cruel. I had not thought to have listened to such a recom¬ 
mendation from one who loved me as you profess.” 

“As I do, Mark — I say nothing which 1 do not feel. It 
does not follow that you will be any niglier your object, if my 
father continue firm in his refusal, though niglier to me, by 
lingering about in the nation. On the contrary, will he not, 
hearing of you in the neighborhood, be more close in his re¬ 
straints upon me ? Will not your chance of exposure, too, be 


PARTING AND FLIGHT. 


227 


bo much the greater, as to make it incumbent upon him to 
pursue his determination with rigor ? while, on the other hand, 
if you remove yourself out of all reach of Georgia, in the 
Mississippi, and there begin a settlement, I am sure that he will 
look upon the affair with different notions.” 

“ It can not be, Kate — it can not be. You know I have had 
but a single motive for living so long among this people and in 
these parts. I disliked both, and only lingered with a single 
hope, that I might be blessed with your presence always, and 
in the event of my sufficient success, that I might win you 
altogether for myself. I have not done much for this object, 
and this unhappy affair forbids me for the present to do more. 
Is not this enough, Katharine, and must I bury myself from you 
a thousand miles in the forest, ignorant of what may be going 
on, and without any hope, such as I have lived for before? Is 
the labor I have undergone—the life I have led—to have no 
fruits ? Will you too be the first to recommend forgetfulness; 
to overthrow my chance of happiness? No —it must not be. 
Hear me, Kate—hear me, and say I have not worked alto¬ 
gether in vain. I have acquired some little by my toils, and 
can acquire more. There is one thing now, one blessing which 
you may afford, and the possession of which will enable me to 
go with a light heart and a strong hand into any forests, winning 
comforts for both of us—happiness, if the world have it — and 
nothing to make us afraid.” 

He spoke with deep energy, and she looked inquiringly into 
his face. The expression was satisfactory, and she replied 
without hesitation:— 

“I understand you, Mark Forrester—I understand you, but 
it must not be. I must regard and live for affections besides 
my own. Would you have me fly for ever from those who have 
been all to me—from those to whom I am all—from my father 
—from my dear, my old mother! Fy, Mark.” 

"‘And are you not all to me, Katharine — the one thing for 
which I would live, and wanting which I care not to live ? Ay, 
Katharine, fly with me from all — and yet not for ever. They 
will follow you, and our end will then be answered. Unless 
you do this, they would linger on in this place without an ob¬ 
ject, even if permitted, which is very doubtful, to hold their 


228 


GUY RIVERS. 


ground — enjoying life as a vegetable, and dead before life 
itself is extinct.” 

“ Spare your speech, Mark—on this point you urge me in vain,” 
was the firm response of the maiden. Though I feel for you as 
as I feel for none other, I also feel that I have other ties and 
other obligations, all inconsistent with the step which you would 
have me take. I will not have you speak of it further—on 
this particular I am immoveable.” 

A shade of mortification clouded the face of Forrester as she 
uttered these words, and for a moment ho was silent. Resuming, 
at length, with something of resignation in his manner, he con¬ 
tinued— 

“ Well, Kate, since you will have it so, I forbear; though, 
what course is left for you, and what hope for me, if your father 
continues in his present humor, I am at a loss to see. There is 
one thing, however—there is one pledge that I would exact 
from you before we part.” 

He took her hand tenderly as he spoke, and his eyes, glisten 
ing with tearful expectation, were fixed upon her own; but she 
did not immediately reply. She seemed rather to await the 
naming of the pledge of which he spoke. There was a struggle 
going on between her mind and her affections; and though, in 
the end, the latter seemed to obtain the mastery, the sense of 
propriety, the moral guardianship of her own spirit battled 
sternly and fearlessly against their suggestions. She would 
make no promise which might, by any possibility, bind her to 
an engagement inconsistent with other and primary obligations. 

“ I know not, Mark, what may be the pledge which you would 
have from me, to which I could consent with propriety. When 
I hear your desires, plainly expressed to my understanding, I 
shall better know how to reply. You heard the language of my 
father: I must obey his wishes as far as I know them. Though 
sometimes rough, and irregular in his habits, to me he has been 
at all times tender and kind : I would not now disobey his com¬ 
mands. Still, in this matter, my heart inclines too much in 
your favor not to make me less scrupulous than I should other¬ 
wise desire to be. Besides, I have so long held myself yours, 
and with his sanction, that I can the more easily listen to your 
entreaties. If, then you truly love me, you will, I am sure, 


PARTING AND FLIGHT. 229 

ask nothing that I should not grant. Speak—what is the 
pledge ?” 

“ It shall come with no risk, Kate, believe me, none. Heaven 
forbid that I should bring a solitary grief to your bosom; yet 
it may adventure in some respects both mind and person, if you 
be not wary. Knowing your father, as you know him too, I 
would have from you a pledge—a promise, here, solemnly ut¬ 
tered in the eye of Heaven, and in the holy stillness of this 
place, which has witnessed other of our vows no less sacred and 
solemn, that, should he sanction the prayer of another who 
seeks your love, and command your obedience, that you will 
not obey—that you will not go quietly a victim to the altar— 
that you will not pledge to another the same vow which has 
been long since pledged to me.” 

He paused a moment for a reply, but she spoke not; and 
with something like impetuosity he proceeded : — 

“ You make no reply, Katharine ? You hear my entreaty— 
my prayer. It involves no impropriety; it stands in the way 
of no other duty, since, I trust, the relationship between us is 
as binding as any other which may call for your regard. All 
that I ask is, that you will not dispose of yourself to another, 
your heart not going with your hand, whatever may be the au¬ 
thority which may require it; at least, not until you are fully 
assured that it is beyond my power to claim you, or I become 
unworthy to press the claim.” 

“ It is strange, Mark, that you should speak in a manner of 
which there is so little need. The pledge long since uttered as 
solemnly as you now require, under these very boughs, should 
satisfy you.” 

“ So it should, Kate—and so it would, perhaps, could I now 
reason on any subject. But my doubts are not now of your 
love, but of your firmness in resisting a control at variance with 
your duty to yourself. Your words reassure me, however; and 
now, though with 10 glad heart, I shall pass over the border, 
and ho r * r f u ter days which are to make us happy.” 

ter Forrester,” exclaimed the voice of old 
the cover of the sycamore, to the shelter 
.*nced unobserved, and had been the unsus- 
A,or of the dialogue from first to last. The couple. 


280 


GUY I?TVERS. 


with an awkward consciousness, started, up at the speech, taken 
by surprise, and neither uttering a word in reply to this sudden 
address. 

“ You must first answer, young man, to the charge of advising 
my daughter to disobedience, as I have heard you for the last half 
hour; and to elopement, which she had the good sense to refuse. 
I thought, Master Forrester, that you were better bred than to 
be guilty of such offences.” 

“ I know them not as such, Mr. Allen. I had your own sanc¬ 
tion to my engagement with Katharine, and do not see that 
after that you had any right to break it off.” 

“You do not—eh? Well, perhaps, you are right, and I 
have thought better of the matter myself; and, between us, 
Kate has behaved so well, and spoken so prettily to you, and 
obeyed my orders, as she should have done, that I’m thinking 
to look more kindly on the whole affair.” 

“Are you, dear father?—Oh, I am so happy !” 

“Hush, minx! the business is mine, and none of yours.— 
Hark you, Mark. You must fly—there’s no two ways about 
that; and, between us, there will be a devil of a stir in this 
matter. I have it from good authority that the governor will 
riddle the whole nation but he’ll have every man, woman, and 
child, concerned in this difficulty : so that’ll be no place for you. 
You must go right on to the Massassfppi , and enter lands enough 
for us all. Enter them in Kate’s name, and they’ll be secure. 
As soon as you’ve fixed that business, write on, say where you 
are, and we’ll be down upon you, bag and baggage, in no time 
and less.” 

“ Oh, dear father—this is so good of you !” 

“ Pshaw, get away, minx ! I don’t like kisses jest after sup¬ 
per ; it takes the taste all out of my mouth of what I’ve been 
eating.” 

Forrester was loud in his acknowledgments, and sought by 
eulogistic professions to do away the ill effect of all that he 
might have uttered in the previous conversation; but the old 
man cut him short with his wonted querulousness: — 

“ Oh, done with your blarney, boy ! ‘ It’s all my eye and 

Betty Martin!’ Won’t you go in and take supper? There’s 
something left, I reckon.” 


PARTING AND FLIGHT. 


•231 


But Forrester had now no idea of eating, and declined ac¬ 
cordingly, alleging his determination to set off immediately 
upon his route — a determination which the old man highly ap¬ 
proved of. 

“ You are right, Mark—move’s the word, and the sooner you 
go about it the better. Here’s my hand on your bargain, and 
good-by—-I reckon you’ll have something more to say to Kate, 
and I suppose you don’t want me to help you in saying it — so 
I leave you. She’s used t:> the way ; and, if she’s at all afraid, 
you can easily sbo her home.” 

With a few more words the old man took his departure, leav¬ 
ing the young people as happy now as he had before found 
them sad and sorrowful. They did not doubt that the reason 
of this change was as he alleged it, and gave themselves no 
thought as to causes, satisfied as they were with effects. But 
old Allen had not proceeded without his host: he had been ad¬ 
vised of the contemplated turn-out of all the squatters from the 
gold-region; and, having no better tenure than any of his neigh¬ 
bors, he very prudently made a merit of necessity, and took hi? 
measures as we have seen. The lovers were satisfied, and their 
interview now wore, though at parting, a more sunshiny com¬ 
plexion. 

But why prolong a scene admitting of so little variety as 
that which describes the sweets, and the strifes, and the sor¬ 
rows, of mortal love? We take it there is no reader of nov¬ 
els so little conversant with matters of this nature as not to 
know how they begin and how they end; and, contenting our¬ 
selves with separating the parties — an act hardhearted enough, 
in all conscience — we shall not with idle and questionable sym¬ 
pathy dwell upon the sorrows of their separation. We may 
utter a remark, however, which the particular instance before 
us occasions, in relation to the singular influence of love upon 
the mental and moral character of the man. There is no influ¬ 
ence in the world’s circumstance so truly purifying, elevating, 
and refining. It instils high and generous sen jments; it enno¬ 
bles human endeavor; it sanctifies defeat and denial; it polishes 
manners; it gives to morals a tincture of devotion ; and, as with 
the spell of magic, such as Milton describes in “ Oomus,” it dis¬ 
sipates with a glance the wild rout of low desires and insane 


232 


GUY iiIVKRte. 


follies which so much biur and blot up the otherwise fair face 
of human society. It permits of no meanness in its train; it 
expels vulgarity, and, with a high stretch toward perfected hu- 
manity, it unearths the grovelling nature, and gives it aspira¬ 
tions cf scui and sunshine. 

Its effect upon Forrester had been of this description. It had 
been his only tutor, and had taught him nobly in numberless 
respects. In every association with the maiden of his affections, 
his tone, his language, his temper, and his thoughts, seemed to 
undergo improvement and purification. He seemed quite an¬ 
other man whenever he came into her presence, and whenever 
the thought of her was in his heart. Indeed, such was the 
effect of this passion upon both of them ; though this may have 
been partially the result of other circumstances, arising from 
their particular situation. For a long time they had known 
few enjoyments that were not intimately connected with the 
image of one another; and thus, from having few objects besides 
of contemplation or concern, they refined upon each other. As 
the minute survey in the forest of the single leaf, which, for 
years, may not have attracted the eye, unfolds the fine veins, 
the fanciful outline, the clear, green, and transparent texture, 
and the delicate shadowings of innumerable hues won from the 
skies and the sunshine — so, day by day, surveying the single 
object, they had become familiar with attractions in one another 
which the passing World would never have supposed either of 
them to possess. In ouch a region, where there are few com¬ 
petitors for human love and regard, the heart clings with hun¬ 
gering tenacity to the few stray affections that spring up, here 
and there, like flowers dropped by some kindly, careless hand, 
making a bloom and a blessing for the untrodden wilderness. 
Nor do they blossom there in vain, since, as the sage has told 
us, there is no breeze that wafts not life, no sun that brings not 
smiles, no water that beat’s not refreshment, no flower that has 
not charms and a solace, for some heart that could not well hope 
to be happy without them. 

They separated on the verge of the copse to which he had 
attended her, their hands having all the way been passionately 
linked, and a seal having been set upon their mutual vows by 
the long, loving embrace which concluded their interview. The 


PARTING AND FLIGHT. 


233 


cottage was in sight, and, from the deep shade which surrounded 
him, he beheld her enter its precincts in safety; then, returning 
to the place of tryst, he led forth his steed, and, with a single 
bound, was once more in his saddle, and once more a wanderer. 
The cheerlessness of such a fate as that before him, even under 
the changed aspect of his affairs, to those unaccustomed to the 
rather too migratory habits of our southern and western people, 
would seem somewhat severe; but the only hardship in his 
present fortune, to the mind of Forrester, was the privation and 
protraction of his love-arrangements. The wild, woodland ad¬ 
venture common to the habits of the people of this class, had a 
stimulating effect upon his spirit at all other times; and, even 
now—though perfectly legitimate for a lover to move slowly 
from his mistress—the moon just rising above the trees, and 
his horse in full gallop through their winding intricacies, a 
warm and bracing energy came to his aid, and his heart grew 
cheery under its inspiriting influences. He was full of the future, 
rich in anticipation, and happy in the contemplation of a thou¬ 
sand projects. With a free rein he plunged forward into the 
recesses of the forest, dreaming of a cottage in the Mississippi, 
a heart at ease, and Katharine Allen, with all her beauties, for 
ever at hand to keep it so. 


234 


GUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

MIDNIGHT SURPRISE. 

The night began to wane, and still did Lucy Munro keep 
lonely vigil in her chamber. How could she sleep ? Threat¬ 
ened with a connection so dreadful as to her mind was that pro¬ 
posed with Guy Rivers—deeply interested as she now felt her¬ 
self in the fortunes of the young stranger, for whose fate and 
safety, knowing the unfavorable position in which he stood with 
the outlaws, she had everything to apprehend—it can cause no 
wonder when we say sleep grew a stranger to her eyes, and 
without retiring to her couch, though extinguishing her light, 
she sat musing by the window of her chamber upon the thou¬ 
sand conflicting and sad thoughts that were at strife in her 
spirit. She had not been long in this position when the sound 
of approaching horsemen reached her ears, and after a brief in¬ 
terval, during which she could perceive that they had alighted, 
she heard the door of the hall gently unclosed, and footsteps, 
set down with nice caution, moving through the passage. A 
light danced for a moment fitfully along the chamber, as if 
borne from the sleeping apartment of Munro to that adjoining 
the hall in which the family were accustomed to pursue their 
domestic avocations. Then came an occasional murmur of 
speech to her ears, and then silence. 

Perplexed with these circumstances, and wondering at the 
return of Munro at an hour something unusual — prompted too 
by a presentiment of something wrong, and apprehensive on the 
score of Ralph’s safety—a curiosity not, surely, under these cir¬ 
cumstances, discreditable, to know what was going on, deter¬ 
mined her to ascertain something more of the character of the 
nocturnal visitation. She felt assured, from the strangeness of 


MIDNIGHT SURPRISE. 


235 


the occurrence, that evil was afoot, and solicitous for its pre¬ 
vention, she was persuaded to the measure solely with the view 
to good. 

Hastily, but with trembling hands, undoing the door of her 
apartment, she made her way into the long, dark gallery, with 
which she was perfectly familiar, and soon gained the apart¬ 
ment already referred to. The door fortunately stood nearly 
closed, and she successfully passed it by and gained the hall, 
which immediately adjoined, and lay in perfect darkness. 
Without herself being seen, she was enabled, through a crevice 
in the partition dividing the two rooms, to survey its inmates, 
and to hear distinctly everything that was uttered. 

As she expected, there were the two conspirators, Rivers and 
Munro, earnestly engaged in discourse; to which, as it concerns 
materially our progress, we may well be permitted to lend our 
attention. They spoke on a variety of topics entirely foreign 
to the understanding of the half-affrighted and nervously-suscep- 
tible, but still resolute young girl who heard them; and nothing 
but her deep anxieties for one, whose own importance in her 
eyes at that moment she did not conjecture, could have sus¬ 
tained her while listening to a dialogue full of atrocious inten¬ 
tion, and larded throughout with a familiar and sometimes foul 
phraseology that certainly was not altogether unseemly in such 
association. 

“Well, Blundell’s gone too, they say. He’s heartily fright¬ 
ened. A few more will follow, and we must both be out of the 
way. The rest could not well be identified, and whether they 
are or not does not concern us, except that they may blab of their 
confederates. Such as seem likely to suffer detection must be 
frightened off; and this, by the way, is not so, difficult a matter. 
Pippin knows nothing of himself. Forrester is too much in¬ 
volved to be forward. It was for this that I aroused and set 
him on. His hot blood took fire at some little hints that 1 
threw out, and the fool became a leader in the mischief 
There’s no danger from him; besides, they say, lie’s off too. 
Old Allen has broken off the match between him and his 
daughter, and the fellow’s almost mad on the strength of it. 
There’s but one left who might trouble us, and it is now under- 


236 


GUY RIVERS. 


stood that but one mode offers for liis silence. We are perfect¬ 
ly agreed as to this, and no more scruples.” 

The quick sense of the maiden readily taught her who was 
meant; and her heart trembled convulsively within her, as, 
with a word, Munro, replying to Rivers, gave his assent. 

“Why, yes—it must he done, I suppose, though somehow 
or other I would it could be got rid of in any other way.” 

“You see for yourself, Wat, there can be no other way ; for 
as long as he lives, there is no security. The few surviving 
guard will be seen to, and they saw too little to be dangerous. 
They were like stunned and stupified men. This boy alone 
was cool and collected, and is so obstinate in what he knows 
and thinks, that he troubles neither himself nor his neighbors 
with doubt or difficulty. I knew him a few years ago, when 
something more of a boy than now; and even then he was the 
same character.” 

“ But why not let him start, and take the woods for it] How 
easy to settle the matter on the roadside, in a thousand different 
ways. The accumulation of these occurrences in the village, 
as much as anything else, will break us up. I don’t care for 
myself, for I expect to be off for a time; but I want to see the 
old woman and Lucy keep quiet possession here—” 

“You are becoming an old woman yourself, Wat, and should 
be under guardianship. All these scruples are late; and, in¬ 
deed, even were they not, they would be still useless. We 
have determined on the thing, and the sooner we set about it 
the better. The night wanes, and I have much to see to before 
daylight. To-morrow I must sleep — sleep—” and for a mo¬ 
ment Rivers seemed to muse upon the word sleep, which he 
thrice repeated; then suddenly proceeding, as if no pause had 
taken place, he abruptly placed his hand upon the shoulder of 
Munro, and asked— 

“ You will bear the lantern; this is all you need perform. I 
am resolute for the rest.” 

“ What will you use—dirk] 

“Yes—it is silent in its office, and not less sure. Are all 
asleep, think you—your wife]” 

“ Quite so — sound when I entered the chamber.” 

“ Well, the sooner to business the better. Is there water in 


MIDNIGHT SURPRISE. 287 

that pitcher 1 I am strangely thirsty to-night; brandy were not 
amiss at such a time.” 

And speaking this to himself, as it were, Rivers approached 
the side-table, where stood the commodities he sought. In this 
approach the maiden had a more perfect view of the malignities 
of his savage face; and as he left the table, and again com¬ 
menced a brief conversation in an under-tone with Munro, no 
longer doubting the dreadful object which they had in view, 
she seized the opportunity with as much speed as was consist¬ 
ent with caution and her trembling nerves, to leave the place 
of espionage, and seek her chamber. 

But to what purpose had she heard all this, if she suffered 
the fearful deed to proceed to execution 1 The thought was 
momentary, but carried to her heart, in that moment, the fullest 
conviction of her duty. 

She rushed hurriedly again into the passage — and, though 
apprehending momentarily that her knees would sink from 
under her, took her way up the narrow flight of steps leading 
into the second story, and to the youth’s chamber. As she 
reached the door, a feminine scruple came over her. A young girl 
seeking the apartment of a man at midnight — she shrunk back 
with a new feeling. But the dread necessity drove her on, 
and with cautious hand undoing the latch securing the doer by 
thrusting her hand through an interstice between the logs— 
wondering at the same time at the incautious manner in which, 
at such a period and place, the youth had provided for his sleep¬ 
ing hours—she stood tremblingly within the chamber. 

Wrapped in unconscious slumbers, Ralph Colleton lay dream¬ 
ing upon his rude couch of a thousand strange influences and 
associations. His roving fancies had gone to and fro, between 
his uncle and his bewitching cousin, until his heart grew 
softened and satisfied, not less with the native pleasures which 
they revived in his memory, than of the sweet oblivion which 
they brought of the many painful and perilous prospects with 
which he had more recently become familiar. He had no 
thought of the present, and the pictures of the past were all 
rich and ravishing. To his wandering sense at that moment 
there came a sweet vision of beauty and love — of an affection 
warmly cherished — green as the summer leaves—fresh as its 


2d8 


GUY RIVERS. 


flowers “—flinging odors about his spirit, and re-awakening in 
its fullest extent the partially slumbering passion—reviving 
many a hope, and provoking with many a delicious anticipa¬ 
tion. The form of the one, lovely beyond comparison, flitted 
before him, while her name, murmured with words of passion 
by his parted lips, carried with its utterance a sweet promise 
of a pure faith, and an unforgetting affection. Never once, 
since the hour of his departure from home, had he, in his wa¬ 
king moments, permitted that name to find a place upon his 
lips, and now syllabled into sound by them in his unconscious 
dreams, it fell with a stunning influence upon an auditor, whose 
heart grew colder in due proportion with the unconscious but 
warm tenderness of epithet with which his tongue coupled its 
utterance. 

The now completely unhappy Lucy stood sad and statue¬ 
like. She heard enough to teach her the true character of her 
own feelings for one, whose articulated dreams had revealed 
the secret of his passion for another; and almost forgetting for 
a while the office upon which she had come, she continued to 
give ear to those sounds which brought to her heart only addi¬ 
tional misery. 

How long Ralph, in his mental wanderings, would have gone 
on, as we have seen, incoherently developing his heart’s history, 
may not be said. Gathering courage at last, with a noble ener¬ 
gy, the maiden proceeded to her proposed duty, and his slum¬ 
bers were broken. With a lialf-awakened consciousness he 
raised himself partially up in his couch, and sought to listen. 
He was not deceived; a whispered sentence came to his ears, 
addressed to himself, and succeeded by a pause of several mo¬ 
ments’ continuance. Again his name was uttered. Half doubt¬ 
ing his senses, he passed his hand repeatedly over his eyes, and 
again listened for the repetition of that voice, the identity of 
which he had as yet failed utterly to distinguish. The sounds 
were repeated, and the words grew more and more distinct. 
He now caught in part the tenor of the sentence, though imper 
fectly heard. It seemed to convey some warning of danger, 
and the person who spoke appeared, from the tremulous ac¬ 
cents, to labor under many apprehensions. The voice proceed¬ 
ed with increased emphasis, advising his instant departure from 


MIDNIGHT SURPRISE. 


239 


the house—speaking of nameless dangers—of murderous in¬ 
trigue and conspiracy, and warning against even the delay of a 
single instant. 

The character of Ralph was finely marked, and firmness of 
purpose and a ready decision were among its most prominent 
attributes. Hastily l eaping from his couch, therefore, with a 
single bound he reached the door of his chamber, which, to his 
astonishment, he found entirely unfastened. The movement 
was so sudden and so entirely unlooked-for, that the intruder 
was taken by surprise; and beheld, while the youth closed 
securely the entrance, the hope of escape entirely cut off. 
Ralph advanced toward his visiter, the dim outline of whose 
person was visible upon the wall. Lifting his arm as he ap¬ 
proached, what was his astonishment to perceive the object of 
his assault sink before him upon the floor, while the pleading 
voice of a woman called upon him for mercy. 

“Spare me, Mr. Colleton—spare me”—she exclaimed, in 
undisguised terror. 

“ You here, Miss Munro, and at this hour of the night,!” was 
the wondering inquiry, as he lifted her from the floor, her 
limbs, trembling with agitation, scarcely able to support even 
her slender form. 

“ Forgive me, sir, forgive me. Think not ill of me, I pray 
you. I come to save you,— indeed, Mr. Colleton, I do — and 
nothing, believe me, would have brought me here but the knowl¬ 
edge of your immediate danger.” 

She felt the delicacy of her situation, and recognising her 
motive readily, we will do him the justice to say, Ralph felt it 
too in the assurance of her lips. A respectful delicacy pervaded 
his manner as he inquired earnestly:— 

“ What is this danger, Miss Munro l I believe you fear for mo, 
but may you not have exaggerated the cause of alarm to your¬ 
self? What have I to fear—from what would you,save me?” 

“ Nay, ask me not, sir, but fly. There is but little time for 
explanation, believe me. I know and do not imagine the dan¬ 
ger. I can not tell you all, nor can you with safety bestow the 
time to hear. Your murderers are awake—they are in this 
very house, and nothing but instant flight can save you from 
their hands.” 


240 


GUY RIVERS. 


“B .t fiom whom, Miss Munro, am I to fear all this? What 
has given you this alarm, which, until you can give me some 
clue to this mystery, I must regard as unadvised and without 
foundation. I feel the kindness and interest of your solicitude 
—deeply feel, and greatly respect it; hut, unless you can give 
me some reasonable ground for your fears, I must be stubborn 
in resisting a connection which would have me fly like a mid¬ 
night felon, without having seen the face of my foe.” 

“ Oh, heed not these false scruples. There is no shame in 
such a flight, and believe me, sir, I speak not unadvisedly. 
Nothing, but the most urgent and immediate danger would have 
prompted me, at this hour, to come here. If you would survive 
this night, take advantage of the warning and fly. This mo¬ 
ment you must determine—I know not, indeed, if it be not too 
late even now for your extrication. The murderers, by this 
time, may be on the way to your chamber, and they will not 
heed your prayers, and they will scorn any defence which you 
might offer.” 

“ But who are they of whom you speak, Miss Munro 1 If I 
must fly, let me at least know from what and whom. What are 
my offences, and whom have I offended 1” 

“ That is soon told, though I fear, sir, we waste the time in 
doing so. You have offended Rivers, and you know but little 
of him if you think it possible for him to forget or forgive 
where once injured, however slightly. The miners generally 
have been taught to regard you as one whose destruction alone 
can insure their safety from punishment for their late aggres 
sions. My uncle too, I grieve to say it, is too much under the 
influence of Rivers, and does indeed just what his suggestions 
prescribe. They have plotted your death, and will not scruple 
at its performance. They are even now below meditating its 
execution. By the merest good fortune I overheard their de¬ 
sign, from which I feel persuaded nothing now can make them 
recede. Rely not on their fear of human punishment. They 
care perhaps just as little for the laws of man as of God, both 
of which they violate hourly with impunity, and from both of 
which they have always hitherto contrived to secure themselves. 
Let me entreat, therefore, that you will take no heed of that 
manful courage which would be honorable and proper with a 


MIDNIGHT SURPRISE. 


241 


fair enemy. Do not think that I am a victim to unmeasured 
and womanly fears. I have seen too much of the doings of 
these men, not to feel that no fancies of mine can do them injus¬ 
tice. They would murder you in your bed, and walk from the 
scene of their crime with confidence into the very courts of 
justice.” 

“ I believe you, Miss Munro, and nothing doubt the correct¬ 
ness of your opinion with regard to the character of these men 
Indeed, I have reason to know that what you say of Rivers, I 
have already realized in my own person. This attempt, if he 
makes it, will be the second in which ho has put my life in 
hazard, and I believe him, therefore, not too good for any 
attempt of this evil nature. But why may I not defend myself 
from the assassins? I can make these logs tenable till daylight 
from all their assaults, and then I should receive succor from 
the villagers without question. You see, too, I have arms which 
may prove troublesome to an enemy.” 

“ Trust not these chances; let me entreat that you rely not 
upon them. Were you able, as you say, to sustain yourself for 
the rest of the night in this apartment, there would be no relief 
in the morning, for how would you make your situation under¬ 
stood ? Many of the villagers will have flown before to-morrow 
into the nation, until the pursuit is well over, which will most 
certainly be commenced before long. Some of them have al¬ 
ready gone, having heard of the approach of the residue of the 
Georgia guard, to which the survivors at the late affair bore the 
particulars. Those who venture to remain will not come nigh 
this house, dreading to be involved in the difficulties which now 
threaten its occupants. Their caution would only be the more 
increased on hearing of any commotion. Wait not, therefore. 
I implore you, for the dawning of the day : it could never dawn 
to you. Rivers I know too well; he would overreach you by 
some subtlety or other; and how easy, even while we speak, to 
shoot you down through these uneven logs. Trust not, trust 
not, 1 entreat you; there is a sure way of escape, and you still 
have time, if at once you avail yourself of it.” 

The maid spoke with earnestness and warmth, for the terrors 
of her mind had given animation to her anxiety, while shs 
sought to persuade the somewhat stubborn youth into the pro- 

11 


'li 2 


GUY RIVERS. 


posed and certainly judicious flight she contemplated for him. 
Her trepidation had made her part with much of that retreating 
timidity which had usually distinguished her manner; and per¬ 
fectly assured herself of the causes of her present apprehension, 
she did not scruple to exhibit—indeed she did not seem alto¬ 
gether conscious of—the deep interest which she took in the 
fate and fortunes of him who stood beside her. 

Flattered as he must have been by the marked feeling, which 
she could neither disguise nor he mistake, the youth did not, how¬ 
ever, for a moment seek to abuse it; but with a habit at once 
gentle and respectful, combated the various arguments and 
suggestions which, with a single eye to his safety, she urged for 
his departure. In so doing, he obtained from her all the par¬ 
ticulars of her discovery, and was at length convinced that her 
apprehensions were by no means groundless. She had acci¬ 
dentally come upon the conspirators at an interesting moment 
in their deliberations, which at once revealed their object and 
its aim; and he at length saw that, except in flight, according 
to her proposition, the chances were against his escape at all. 
While they thus deliberated, the distant sound of a chair falling 
below, occurring at an hour so unusual, gave an added force to 
her suggestions, and while it prompted anew her entreaties, 
greatly diminished his reluctance to the flight. 

“ I will do just as you advise. I know not, Miss Munro, why 
my fate and fortune should have provoked in you such an inter¬ 
est, unless it be that yours being a less selfish sex than ours, 
you are not apt to enter into calculations as to the loss of quiet 
or of personal risk, which, in so doing, you may incur. What¬ 
ever be the motive, however, I am grateful for its effects, and 
shall not readily forget the gentleness of that spirit which has 
done so much for the solace and the safety of one so sad in its 
aspect and so much a stranger in all respects.’* 

The youth spoke with a tone and manner the most tender 
yet respectful, which necessarily relieved from all perplexity 
that; feeling of propriety and maiden delicacy which otherwise 
must have made her situation an awkward one. Ralph was 
not so dull, however, as not to perceive that to a livelier emo¬ 
tion he might in justice attribute the conduct of his companion ; 
but, with a highly-honorable fastidiousness, he himself suggested 


MIDNIGHT SURPRISE. 


243 


a motive for her proceeding which her own delicacy rendered 
improper for her utterance. Still the youth was not marble 
exactly: and, as he spoke, his arm gently encircled her waist; 
and her form, as if incapable of its own support, hung for a mo¬ 
ment, with apathetic lifelessness, upon his bosom; while her 
head, with an impulse not difficult to define, drooped like a 
bending and dewy lily upon his arm. But the passive emotion, 
if we may so style it, was soon over; and, with an effort, in 
w r hich firmness and feebleness strongly encountered, she freed 
herself from his hold with an erect pride of manner, which gave 
a sweet finish to the momentary display which she had made 
of womanly weakness. Her voice, as she called upon him to 
follow her into the passage, was again firm in a moment, and 
pervaded by a cold ease which seemed to him artificial: — 

“ There is but little time left you now, sir, for escape : it were 
criminal not to use it. Follow me boldly, but cautiously — I 
will lead the way — the house is familiar to me, in night and 
day, and there must be no waste of time.” 

He would have resisted this conduct, and himself taken the 
lead in the advance; but, placing her small and trembling hand 
upon his arm, she insisted upon the course she had prescribed, 
and in a manner which he did not venture to resist. Their 
steps were slow into the open space which, seeming as an intro¬ 
duction to, at the same time separated the various chambers of 
the dwelling, and terminated in the large and cumbrous stair¬ 
way which conducted to the lower story, and to which their 
course was now directed. The passage was of some length, but 
with cautious tread they proceeded in safety and without noise 
to the head of the stairway, when the maiden, who still pre¬ 
served the lead, motioned him back, retreating herself, as she 
did so, into the cover of a small recess, formed by the stairs, 
which it partially overhung, and presenting a doubtful apology 
for a closet. Its door hung upon a broken and single hinge, 
unclosed—leaving, however, so small an aperture, that it might 
be difficult to account for their entrance. 

There, amid the dust and mystery of time-worn household 
trumpery, old saddles, broken bridles, and more than one dis¬ 
membered harness, they came to a pause, and were enabled 
pew to perceive the realization in part of her apprehensions 


244 


GUY RIVERS. 


A small lantern, the rays of light from which feebly made their 
way through a single square in front, disclosed to the sight the 
dim forms of the two assassins, moving upward to the contem¬ 
plated deed of blood. 

The terrors of Lucy, as she surveyed their approach, were 
great; but, with a mind and spirit beyond those commonly in 
the possession of her sex, she was enabled to conquer and rise 
above them; and, though her heart beat with a thick and hur 
ried apprehension, her soul grew calmer the more closely ap 
proached the danger. Her alarm, to the mind of Ralph, was 
nOw sufficiently justified, as, looking through a crevice in the 
narrow apartment in which he stood, he beheld the malignant 
and hell-branded visage of Rivers, peering like a dim and bale¬ 
ful light in advance of his companion, in whose face a partial 
glimmer of the lamp revealed a something of reluctance, which 
rendered it doubtful how far Munro had in reality gone willingly 
on the task. 

It was, under all the circumstances, a curious survey for the 
youth. He was a man of high passions, sudden of action, im¬ 
petuous and unhesitating. In a fair field, he would not have 
been at a loss for a single moment; but here, the situation was 
so new, that he was more and more undetermined in his spirit. 
He saw them commissioned with his murder — treading, one by 
one, the several steps below him — approaching momently nigher 
and nigher — and his heart beat audibly with conflicting emo ¬ 
tions ; vffiile with one hand he grasped convulsively and desper¬ 
ately the handle of his dirk, the other being fully employed in 
sustaining the almost fainting form of his high-souled but deli¬ 
cate companion. He felt that, if discovered, he could do little 
in his defence and against assault; and though -without a thought 
but that of fierce struggle to the last, his reason taught him to 
perceive with how little hope of success. 

As the assassins continued to advance, he could distinctly 
trace every change of expression in their several countenances. 
In that of Rivers, linked with the hideousness that his wound 
conferred upon it, he noted the more wicked workings of a 
spirit, the fell character of whose features received no moderate 
exaggeration from the dim and flickering glare of the lamp 
which his hand unsteadily cirried. The whole face had in it 



MIDNIGHT SURPRISE. 


245 


something awfully fearful. He seemed, in its expression, al¬ 
ready striking the blow at the breast of bis victim, or rioting 
with a fiendish revenge in his groaned agonies. A brief dia¬ 
logue between bis companion and himself more fully describes 
the character of the monster. 

“ Stay — you burry too much in this matter,” said Munro, 
putting his band on that of Rivers, and restraining bis steps for 
a moment as be paused, seemingly to listen. He continued— 

“Your band trembles, Rivers, and you let your lamp dance 
about too much to find it useful. Your footstep is un.-teady, 
and but now the stairs creaked heavily beneath you. You 
must proceed with more caution, or we shall be overheard. 
These are sleepless times, and this youth, who appears to 
tiouble you more than man ever troubled you before, may be 
just as much awake as ourselves. If you are determined in this 
thing, be not imprudent.” 

Rivers, who, on reaching the head of the flight, had been 
about to move forward precipitately, now paused, though with 
much reluctance; and to the speech of his companion, with a 
fearful expression of the lips, which, as they parted, disclosed 
the teeth white and closely clinched beneath them, replied, 
though without directly referring to its import— 

“If I am determined—do you say! — But is not that the 
chamber where he sleeps V* 

“No; old Barton sleeps there —he sleeps at the end of the 
gallery. Be calm—why do you work yOur fingers in that 
manner V* 

“ See you not my knife is in them ] I thought at that mo¬ 
ment that it was between his ribs, and working about in his 
heart. It was a sweet fancy, and, though I could not hear his 
groans as I stooped over him to listen, I almost thought I felt 
them.” 

The hand of the maiden grasped that of Ralph convulsively 
as these muttered words came to their ears, and her respiration 
grew more difficult and painful. He shuddered at the vindic¬ 
tive spirit which the wretch exhibited, while his own, putting 
on a feller and a fiercer temper, could scarcely resist the impulse 
which would have prompted him at once to rush forth and stab 
him where he stood. But the counsels of prudence had their 


246 


(iUY RIVERS. 


influence, and he remained quiet and firm. The companion of 
the ruffian felt no less than his other hearers the savage nature 
of his mood, as thus., in his own way, he partially rebuked it: 

“ These are horrid fancies, Rivers—more like those which 
we should ook to find in a panther than in a man; and you de¬ 
light in them quite too much. Can you not kill your enemy 
without drinking his blood ?” 

“ And where then would he the pleasure of revenge?”—he 
muttered, between his closed teeth. “ The soldier who in bat¬ 
tle slays his opponent, hates him not — he has no personal ani¬ 
mosity to indulge. The man has never crossed his path in love 
or in ambition — yet he shoots him down, ruthlessly and relent¬ 
lessly. Shall he do no more who hates, who fears, who sickens 
at the sight of the man who has crossed his path in love and in 
ambition ? I tell you, Munro, I hate this boy—this beardless, this 
overweening and insolent boy. He has overthrown, he has mor¬ 
tified me, where I alone should have stood supreme and superemi- 
nent. He has wronged me — it may be without intention; but, 
what care I for that qualification. Shall it be less an evil because 
he by whom it is perpetrated has neither the soul nor the sense 
to be conscious of his error. The child who trifles with the 
powder-match is lessoned by the explosion which destroys him. 
It must be so with him. I never yet forgave a wrong, however 
slight and unimportant — I never will. It is not in my nature 
to do so; and as long as this boy can sleep at night, I can not. 
I will not seek to sleep until he is laid to rest for ever!” 

The whole of this brief dialogue, which had passed directly 
beside the recess in which the maiden and youth had taken 
shelter, was distinctly audible to them both. The blood of 
Ralph boiled within him at this latter speech of the ruffian, in 
which he avowed a spirit of such dire malignity, as, in its utter 
disproportionateness to the supposed offence of the youth, could 
only have been sanctioned by the nature which he had declared 
to have always been his prompter; and, at its close, the arm 
of the youth, grasping his weapon, was involuntarily stretched 
forth, and an instant more would have found it buried in the 
bosom of the wretch—but the action did not escape the quick 
eye of his companion, who, though trembling with undiminished 
terror, was yet mistress of all her senses, and perceived the ill- 


MIDNIGHT SURPRISE. 


247 


advised nature of his design. With a motion equally involun¬ 
tary and sudden with his own, her taper fingers grasped his 
wrist, and her eyes bright with dewy lustres, were directed up¬ 
ward, sweetly and appealingly to those which now bent them¬ 
selves down upon her. In that moment of excitement and im¬ 
pending terror, a consciousness of her situation and a sense of 
shame which more than ever agitated her, rushed through her 
mind, and she leaned against the side of the closet for that sup¬ 
port for which her now revived and awakened scruples forbade 
any reference to him from whom she had so recently received 
it. Still, there was nothing abrupt or unkind in her manner, 
and the youth did not hesitate again to place his arm around 
and in support of the form which, in reality, needed his strength. 
In doing so, however, a slight noise was the consequence, which 
the quick sense of Rivers readily discerned. 

“Hark! — heard you nothing, Munro—no sound? Hear 
you no breathing? — It seems at hand—in that closet.” 

“ Thou hast a quick ear to-night, Guy, as well as a quick 
step. I heard, and hear nothing, save the snorings of old Bar¬ 
ton, whose chamber is just beside you to the left. He has al¬ 
ways had a reputation for the wild music which his nose con¬ 
trives, during his sleep, to keep up in his neighborhood.” 

“ It came from the opposite quarter, Munro, and was not un¬ 
like the suppressed respiration of one who listens.” 

“ Pshaw! that can not be. There is no chamber there. 
That is but the old closet in which we store away lumber. 
You are quite too regardful of your senses. They will keep us 
here all night, and the fact is, I wish the business well over.” 

“ Where does Lucy sleep ?” 

“ In the off shed-room below. What of her ?” 

Of her—oh nothing!” and Rivers paused musingly in the 
utterance of th?.« reply, which fell syllable by syllable from his 
lips. The landlord proceeded: — 

“ Pass on, Rivers; pass on : or have you determined better 
about this matter ? Shall the youngster live ? Indeed, I see 
not that his evidence, even if he gives it, which I very much 
doubt, can do us much harm, seeing that a few days more will 
put us out of the reach of judge and jury alike.” 

“You would have made a prime counsellor and subtle dispu 


248 


GUY RIVERS. 


tant, Munro, worthy of the Philadelphia lawyers,” returned the 
other, in a sneer. “ You think only of one part of this subject, 
and have no passions, no emotions: you can talk all day long 
on matters of feeling, without showing any. Did I not say 
but now, that while that boy slept I could not V* 

“ Are you sure that when he ceases to sleep the case will he 
any better V 

The answer to this inquiry was unheard, as the pair passed 
on to the tenantless chamber. Watching their progress, and 
under the guidance of the young maiden, who seemed endued 
with a courage and conduct worthy of more experience and a 
stronger sex, the youth emerged from his place of precarious 
and uncomfortable concealment, and descended to the lower 
floor. A few moments sufficed to throw the saddle upon his 
steed, without arousing the sable groom; and having brought 
him under the shadow of a tree at some little distance from the 
house, he found no further obstruction in the way of his safe 
and sudden flight. He had fastened the door of his chamber 
on leaving it, with much more caution than upon retiring for 
the night; and having withdrawn the key, which he now 
hurled into the woods, he felt assured that, unless the assassins 
had other than the common modes of entry, he should gain a 
little time from the delay they would experience from this in¬ 
terruption; and this interval, returning to the doorway, he em¬ 
ployed in acknowledgments which were well due to the young 
and trembling woman who stood beside him. 

“ Take this little token, sweet Lucy,” said he, throwing about 
her neck the chain and casket which he had unbound from his 
own — “ take this little token of Ralph Colleton’s gratitude for 
this night’s good service. I shall redeem it, if I live, at a more 
pleasant season, but you must keep it for me now. I will not 
soon forget the devotedness with which, on this occasion, you 
have perilled so much for a stranger. Should we never again 
meet, I pray you to remember me in your prayers, and I shall 
always remember you in mine.” 

He little knew, while he thus spoke in a manner so humbly 
of himself, of the deep interest which his uniform gentleness 
of manner and respectful deference, so different from what she 
had been accustomed to encounter, had inspired in her bosom* 


MIDNIGHT SURPRISE. 


249 


and so small at this period was his vanity, that he did not trust 
himself for a moment to regard the conjecture—which ever 
and anon thrust itself upon him — that the fearless devotion of 
the maiden in his behalf and for his safety, had in reality a far 
more selfish origin than the mere general humanity of her sex 
and spirit. We will not say that she would not have done the 
same by any other member of the human family in like circum¬ 
stances ; but it is not uncharitable to believe that she would 
have been less anxiously interested, less warm in her interest, 
and less pained in the event of an unfortunate result. 

Clasping the gorgeous chain about her neck, his arm agair 
gently encircled her waist, her head drooped upon her bosom— 
she did not speak—she appeared scarcely to feel. For a mo¬ 
ment, life and all its pulses seemed resolutely at a stand; and 
with some apprehensions, the youth drew her to his bosom, and 
spoke with words full of tenderness. She made no answer to 
his immediate speech ; but her hands, as if unconsciously, struck 
the spring which locked the casket that hung upon the chain, 
and the miniature lay open before her, the dim light of the 
moon shining down upon it. She reclosed it suddenly, and un¬ 
doing it from the chain, placed it with a trembling hand in his 
own; and with an effort of calm and quiet playfulness, remind¬ 
ed him of the unintended gift. He received it, but only to 
place it again in her hand, reuniting it to the chain. 

“ Keep it,” said he, “ Miss Munro — keep it until I return to 
reclaim it. It will be as safe in your hands—much safer, in¬ 
deed, than in mine. She whose features it describes will not 
chide, that, at a moment of peril, I place it in the care of one 
as gentle as herself.” 

Her eyes were downcast, as, again receiving it, she inquired 
with a girlish curiosity, “ Is her name Edith, Mr. Colleton, of 
whom these features are the likeness!” 

The youth, surprised by the question, met the inquiry with 
another. 

“ How know you ? — wherefore do you ask V* 

She saw his astonishment, and with a calm which had not, 
during the whole scene between them, marked her voice or de¬ 
meanor, she replied instantly: — 

“No matter — no matter, sir. I know not well why I pu< 

11 * 


250 


GUY RIVERS. 


the question —certainly with no object; and am now m«.rc 
than answered.” 

The youth pondered over the affair in silence for a few mo¬ 
ments, but desirous of satisfying the curiosity of the maiden, 
though on a subject and in relation to one of whom he had 
sworn himself to silence—wondering, at the same time, not 
less at the inquiry than the knowledge which it conveyed, of 
that which he had locked up, as lie thought, in the recesses of 
his own bosom — was about to reply, when a hurried step, and 
a sudden noise from the upper apartment of the house, warned 
them of the dangers of further delay. The maiden interrupted 
with rapid tones the speech he was about to commence: — 

“ Fly, sir—fly. There is no time to be lost. You have lin¬ 
gered too long already. Do not hesitate longer — you have 
heard the determination of Rivers—this disappointment will 
only make him more furious. Fly, then, and speak not.. Take 
the left road at the fork : it leads to the river. It is the dullest, 
and if they pursue, they will be most likely to fall into the 
other.” 

“Farewell, then, my good, my protecting angel—I shall not 
forget you—have no apprehensions for me—I have now but 
few for myself. Yet, ere I go—” and he bent down, and be¬ 
fore she was conscious of his design, his lips were pressed 
warmly to her pale and beautiful forehead. “ Be not vexed— 
chide me not,” he murmured—“regard me as a brother—if I 
live I shall certainly become one. Farewell!” 

Leaping with a single bound to his saddle, he stood erect for 
a momeut, then vigorously applying his spurs, he had vanished 
in an instant from the sigh ;. She paused in the doorway until 
the sounds of his hurrying progress had ceased to fall upon her 
ears; then, with a mourn ? ul spirit and heavy 6tep, slowly re 
entered the apartment. 


THE OUTLAW AND HIS VICTIM. 


251 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE OUTLAW AND HIS VICTIM. 

Lucy Munro re-entered the dwelling at a moment most inop¬ 
portune. It was not less her obvious policy than desire— 
prompted as well by the necessity of escaping the notice and 
consequent suspicions of those whom she had defrauded of their 
prey, as by a due sense of that delicate propriety which be¬ 
longed to her sex, and which her education, as the reader will 
have conjectured, had taught her properly to estimate—that 
made her now seek to avoid scrutiny or observation at the mo¬ 
ment of her return. Though the niece, and now under the sole 
direction and authority of Munro, she was the child of one as 
little like that personage in spirit and pursuit as may well be 
imagined. It is not necessary that we should dwell more par¬ 
ticularly upon this difference. It happened with the two broth¬ 
ers, as many of us have discovered in other cases, that their 
mental and moral make, though seemingly under the same tu¬ 
torship, was widely dissimilar. The elder Munro, at an early 
period in life, broke through all restraints — defied all responsi¬ 
bilities— scorned all human consequences—took no pride or 
pleasure in any of its domestic associations—and was only 
known as a vicious profligate, with whom nothing might be 
done In the way of restraint or reformation. When grown to 
manhood, he suddenly left his parental home, and went, for a 
time, no one could say whither. When heard of, it appeared 
from all accounts that his licentiousness of habit had not de¬ 
serted him: still, however, it had not, as had been anticipated, 
led to any fearful or very pernicious results. Years passed on, 
the parents died, and the brothers grew more than ever sepa¬ 
rate; when, in different and remote communities, they each 
took wives to themselves. 


•252 


GUY RIVERS. 


The younger, Edgar Munro, the father of Lucy, grew pros¬ 
perous in business—for a season at least — and, until borne 
down by a rush of unfavorable circumstances, he spared neither 
pains nor expense in the culture of the young mind of that 
daughter whose fortunes are now somewhat before us. Noth¬ 
ing which might tend in the slightest to her personal improve¬ 
ment had been withheld; and the due feminine grace and ac¬ 
complishment which followed these cares fitted the maiden for 
the most refined intellectual converse, and for every gentle as¬ 
sociation. She was familiar with books; had acquired a large 
taste for letters; and a vein of romantic enthusiasm, not uncom¬ 
mon to the southern temperament, and which she possessed in 
a considerable degree, was not a little sharpened and exagger¬ 
ated by the works which fell into her hands. 

Tenderly loved and gently nurtured by her parents, it was 
at that period in her life in which their presence and guardian¬ 
ship were most seriously needed, that she became an orphan; 
and her future charge necessarily devolved upon an uncle, be¬ 
tween whom and her father, since their early manhood, but 
little association of any kind had taken place. The one looked 
upon the other as too licentious, if not criminally so, in his hab¬ 
its and pursuits; he did not know their extent, or dream of 
1 heir character, or he had never doubted for an instant; while 
he, in turn, so estimated, did not fail to consider and to style 
his more sedate brother an inveterate and tedious proser; a dull 
sermonizer on feelings which he knew nothing about, and could 
never understand—one who prosed on to the end of the chap¬ 
ter, without charm or change, worrying all about him with 
exhortations to which they yielded no regard. 

The parties were fairly quits, and there was no love lost be¬ 
tween them. They saw each other but seldom, and, when the 
surviving brother took up his abode in the new jmrchase , as the 
Indian acquisitions of modern times have been usually styled, 
he was lost sight of, for a time, entirely, by his more staid and 
worthy kinsman. 

Still, Edgar Munro did not look upon his brother as utterly 
bad. A wild indifference to social forms, and those staid cus¬ 
toms which in the estimation of society become virtues, was, in 
his idea, the most serious error of which Walter had been guilty 


THE OUTLAW AND HIS VICTIM. 


258 


In this thought he persisted to the last, and did not so much 
feel the privations to which his death must subject his child, in 
the belief and hope that his brother would not only be able but 
willing to supply the loss. 

In one respect he was not mistaken. The afflictions which 
threw the niece of Walter a dependant upon his bounty, and a 
charge upon his attention, revived in some measure his almost 
smothered and in part forgotten regards of kindred; and with 
a tolerably good grace he came forward to the duty, and took 
the orphan to the asylum, such as it was, to which his brother’s 
death-bed prayer had recommended her. At first, there was 
something to her young mind savoring of the romance to which 
she had rather given herself up, in the notion of a woodland 
cottage, and rural sports, and wild vines gadding fantastically 
around secluded bowers; but the reality — the sad reality of 
such a home and its associations — pressed too soon and heavily 
upon her to permit her much longer to entertain or encourage 
the dream of that glad fancy in which she originally set out. 

The sphere to which she was transferred, it was soon evident, 
was neither grateful to the heart nor suited to the mind whose 
education had been such as hers; and the spirit of the young 
maiden, at all times given rather to a dreamy melancholy than 
to any very animated impulses, put on, in its new abiding-place, 
a garb of increased severity, which at certain moments indicated 
more of deep and settled misanthropy than any mere constitu¬ 
tionality of habit. 

Munro was not at all times rude of speech and manner; and, 
when he pleased, knew well how so to direct himself as to sooth 
such a disposition. He saw, and in a little while well under¬ 
stood, the temper of his niece; and, with a consideration under 
all circumstances rather creditable, he would most usually defer, 
with a ready accommodation of his own, to her peculiarities. 
He was pleased and proud of her accomplishments; and from 
being thus proud, so far as such an emotion could consistently 
comport with a life and a licentiousness such as his, he had 
learned, in reality, to love the object who could thus awaken 
a sentiment so much beyond those inculcated by all his other 
habits. To her he exhibited none of the harsh manner which 
marked his intercourse with all other persons; and in his heart 


254 


GUY RIVERS. 


sincerely regretted, and sought to avoid the necessity which, as 
we have elsewhere seen, had made him pledge her hand to Riv¬ 
ers— a disposition of it which he knew was no less galling and 
painful to her than it was irksome yet unavoidable to himself. 

Unhappily, however, for these sentiments, he was too much 
under the control and at the mercy of his colleague to resist or 
refuse his application for her person; and though for a long 
time baffling, under various pretences, the pursuit of that fero¬ 
cious ruffian, he felt that the time was at hand, unless some 
providential interference willed it otherwise, when the sacrifice 
would be insisted on and must be made ; or probably her safety, 
as well as his own, might necessarily be compromised. He 
knew too well the character of Rivers, and was too much in his 
power, to risk much in opposition to his will and desires: and, 
as we have already heard him declare, from having been at one 
time, and in some respects, the tutor, he had now become, from 
the operation of circumstances, the mere creature and instru¬ 
ment of that unprincipled wretch. 

Whatever may have been the crimes of Munro beyond those 
already developed—known to and in the possession of Rivers 
— and whatever the nature of those ties, as well of league as 
of mutual risk, which bound the parties together in such close 
affinity, it is not necessary that we should state, nor, indeed, 
might it be altogether within our compass or capacity to do so. 
Their connection had, we doubt not, many ramifications; and 
was strengthened, there is little question, by a thousand mutual 
necessities, resulting from their joint and frequently-repeated 
violations of the laws of the land. They were both members 
of an irregular club, known by its constituents in Georgia as 
the most atrocious criminal that ever offended society or defied 
its punishments; and the almost masonic mysteries and bond 
which distinguished the members provided them with a pledge 
of security which gave an added impetus to their already reck¬ 
less vindictiveness against man and humanity. In a country, 
the population of which, few and far between, is spread over a 
wide, wild, and little-cultivated territory, the chances of punish¬ 
ment for crime, rarely realized, scarcely occasioned a thought 
among offenders; and invited, by the impunity which marked 
their atrocities, their reiterated commission. We have digressed 























































Pa or 225 


































































































































































THE OUTLAW AND HIS VICTIM. 


255 


however, somewhat from our narrative, but thus much was ne¬ 
cessary to the proper understanding of the portions immediately 
before us, and to the consideration of which we now return. 

The moment was inopportune, as we have already remarked, 
at which Lucy Munro endeavored to effect her return to her 
own apartment. She was compelled, for the attainment of this 
object, to cross directly over the great hall, from the -room ad¬ 
joining and back of which the little shed-room projected in 
which she lodged. This hall was immediately entered upon 
from the passage-way, leading into the court in front, and but a 
few steps were necessary for its attainment. The hall had but 
a single outlet besides that through which she now entered, and 
this led at once into the adjoining apartment, through which 
only could she make her way to her ©wn. Unhappily, this pas¬ 
sage also contained the stairway flight which led into the upper 
story of the building; and, in her haste to accomplish her re¬ 
turn, she had penetrated too far to effect her retreat, when a 
sudden change of direction in the light which Rivers carried 
sufficed to develop the form of that person, at the foot of the 
stairs, followed by Munro, just returning from the attempt 
which she had rendered fruitless, and now approaching directly 
toward her. 

Conscious of the awkwardness of her situation, and with a 
degree of apprehension which now for the first time seemed to 
paralyze her faculties, she endeavored, but with some uncer¬ 
tainty and hesitation of manner, to gain the shelter of the wall 
which stretched dimly beside her; a hope not entirely vain, 
had she pursued it decisively, since the lamp which Rivers car¬ 
ried gave forth but a feeble ray, barely adequate to the task of 
guiding the footsteps of those who employed it. But the glance 
of the outlaw, rendered, it would seem, more malignantly pene¬ 
trating from his recent disappointment, detected the movement; 
and though, from the imperfectness of the light, uncertain of 
the object, with a ready activity, the result of a conviction that 
the long-sought-for victim ’was now before him, he sprang for 
ward, flinging aside the lamp as he did so, and grasping with 
one hand and with rigid gripe the almost-fainting girl: the 
other, brandishing a bared knife, was uplifted to strike, when 
her shrieks arrested the blow. 


256 


GUY lUVERS. 


Disappointed in not finding the object he sought, the fury of 
the outlaw was rather heightened than diminished when he dis¬ 
covered that his arm only encircled a young and terrified fe¬ 
male ; and his teeth were gnashed in token of the bitter wrath 
in his bosom, and angry curses came from his lips in the undis¬ 
guised vexation of his spirit. In the meantime, Munro ad¬ 
vanced, and the lamp having been dashed out in the onset of 
Rivers, they were still ignorant of the character of their pris¬ 
oner, until, having somewhat recovered from her first alarm, and 
struggling for deliverance from the painful gripe which secured 
her arm, she exclaimed— 

“Unhand me, sir—unhand me, on the instant. What mean 
you by this violence V’ 

“ Ha ! it is you then, fair mistress, that have done this work. 
It is you that have meddled in the concerns of men, prying into 
their plans, and arresting their execution. By my soul, I had 
not thought you so ready or so apt; but how do you reconcile 
it to your notions of propriety to be abroad at an hour which is 
something late for a coy damsel? Munro, you must look to 
these rare doings, or they will work you some difficulty in time 
to come.” 

Munro advanced and addressed her with some sternness— 
“ Why are you abroad, Lucy, and at this hour ? why this dis¬ 
quietude, and what has alarmed you ?—why have you left your 
chamber ?” 

The uncle did not obtain, nor indeed did he appear to expect, 
any answer to his inquiries. In the meanwhile, Rivers held pos¬ 
session of her arm, and she continued fruitlessly struggling for 
some moments in his grasp, referring at length to the speaker 
for that interference which he now appeared slow to manifest. 

“Oh, sir! will you suffer me to be treated thus—will you 
not make this man undo his hold, and let me retire to my cham¬ 
ber V* 

“ You should have been there long before this, Lucy,” was 
the reply, in a grave, stern accent. “ You must not complain, 
if, found thus, at midnight, in a part of the building remote from 
your chamber, you should be liable to suspicions of meddling 
with things which should not concern you.” 

Come, mistress—pray answer to this. Where have you 


THE OUTLAW AND HIS VICTIM. 


been to-night — what doing—why abroad ? Rave you been 
eaves Iropping—telling tales—hatching plots?” 

The natural ferocity of Rivers’s manner was rather height¬ 
ened by the tone which he assumed. The maiden, struggling 
still for the release for which her spirit would not suffer her to 
implore, exclaimed:— 

“ Insolent! By what right do you ask me these or any ques¬ 
tions? Unhand me, coward—unhand me. You are strong and 
brave only where the feeble are your opponents.” 

But he maintained his grasp with even more rigidity than be¬ 
fore ; and she turned towards the spot at which stood her uncle, 
but he had left the apartment for a light. 

“ Your speech is bold, fair mistress, and ill suits my temper. 
You must be more chary of your language, or you will provoke 
me beyond my own strength of restraint. You are my property 
—my slave, if I so please it, and all your appeals to your uncle 
will be of no effect. Hark you! you have done that to-night 
for which I am almost tempted to put this dagger into youi 
heart, woman as you are ! You have come between me and my 
victim — between me and my Gnemy. I had summed up all 
my wrongs, intending their settlement to-night. You have 
thwarted all my hopes—you have defrauded me of all my an¬ 
ticipations. What is it prevents me from putting you to death 
on the spot ? Nothing. I have no fears, no loves, to hold and 
keep me back. I live but for revenge, and that which stays 
and would prevent me from its enjoyment, must also become its 
victim.” 

At this moment, Munro returned with a lamp. The affright¬ 
ed girl again appealed to him, but he heeded her not. He soon 
left the passage, and the outlaw proceeded:— 

“You love this youth—nay, shrink not back; let not your 
head droop in shame; he is worthy of your love, and for this, 
among other things, I hate him. He is worthy of the love of 
others, and for this, toe, I hate him. Fool that you are, he cares 
not for you. ’Spite of all your aid to-night, he will not remem¬ 
ber you to-morrow—he has no thought of you—his hope is 
built upon—he is wedded to another. 

“ Hear me, then ! your life is in my hands, and at my mercy. 
There are none present who could interfere and arrest the blow. 


258 


guy rivers. 


My dagger is even now upon your bosom — do you not feel it? 
At a word—a single suggestion of my thought—it performs 
its office, and for this night’s defeat I am half revenged. You 
may arrest my arm—you may procure your release—even 
more—-you may escape from the bondage of that union with 
me for which your uncle stands pledged, if you please.” 

“Speak—say—how!” was the eager exclamation of the 
maiden when this last suggestion met her ears. 

“ Put me on the scent—say on what route have you sent this 
boy, that I may realize the revenge I so often dream of.” 

“ Never, never, as I hope to live. I would rather you should 
strike me dead on the spot.” 

“ Why, so I will,” he exclaimed furiously, and his arm rose 
and the weapon descended, but he arrested the stroke as it ap¬ 
proached her. 

“No ! not yet. There will be time enough for this, and you 
will perhaps be more ready and resigned when I have got rid 
of this youth in whom you are so much interested. I need not 
disguise my purpose to you—you must have known it, when 
conspiring for its defeat; and now, Lucy, be assured, I shall 
not slumber in pursuit of him. I may be delayed, my revenge 
may be protracted, but I shall close with him at last. With 
holding the clue which you may unfold, can not serve him very 
greatly; and having it in your hands, you may serve yourself 
and me. Take my offer—put me on his route, so that he shall 
not escape me, and be free henceforward from pursuit, or, as you 
phrase it, from persecution of mine.” 

“ You offer highly, very highly, Guy Rivers, and I should be 
tempted to anything, save this. But I have not taken this step 
to undo it. I shall give you no clue, no assistance which may 
lead to crime and to the murder of the innocent. Release my 
hand, sir, and suffer me to retire.” 

“ You have the means of safety and release in your own hands 
— a single condition complied with, and, so far as I am con¬ 
cerned, they are yours. Where is he gone—where secreted? 
What is the route which you have advised him to take ? Speak, 
md to the point, Lucy Munro, for I may not longer be trifled 
with.” 

“ He is safe, and by this time, I hope, beyond your reach. I 


THE OUTLAW AND HIS VICTIM. 259 

tell you thus much, because I feel that it can not yield you more 
satisfaction than it yields to me.” 

“ It is in vain, woman, that you would trifle with and delay 
me; he can not escape me in the end. All these woods are 
familiar to me, in night as in day, as the apartment in which 
we stand; and towards this boy I entertain a feeling which will 
endue me with an activity and energy as unshrinking in the 
pursuit as the appetite for revenge is keen which gives them 
birth and impulse. I hate him with a sleepless, an unforgiving 
hate, that can not be quieted. He has dishonored me in the 
presence of these men—he has been the instrument through 
which I bear this badge, this brand-stamp on my cheek—he 
has come between my passion and its object—nay, droop not 
— I have no reference now to you, though you, too, have been 
won by his insidious attractions, while he gives you no thought 
in return—die has done more than this, occasioned more than 
this, and wonder not that I had it in my heart at one moment 
to-night to put my dagger into your bosom, since through you 
it had been defrauded of its object. But why tremble — do you 
not tell me he is safe V’ 

“ I do ! and for this reason I tremble. I tremble with joy, 
not fear. I rejoice that through my poor help he is safe. I did 
it all. I sought him—hear me, Guy Rivers, for in his safety I 
feel strong to speak—I sought him even in his chamber, and 
felt no shame—I led the way — I guided him through all the 
avenues of the house — when you ascended the stairs we stood 
over it in the closet which is at its head. We beheld your prog¬ 
ress— saw, and counted every step you took; heard every word 
you uttered; and more than once, when your fiend soul spoke 
through your lips, in horrible tlireatenings, my hand arrested 
the weapon with which the youth whom you now seek would 
have sent you to your long account, with all your sins upon 
your head. I saved you from his blow; not because you de¬ 
served to live, but because, at that moment, you were too little 
prepared to die.” 

It would be difficult to imagine—certainly impossible to de¬ 
scribe, the rage of Rivers, as, with an excited spirit, the young 
girl, still trembling, as she expressed it, from joy, not fear, 
avowed all the particulars of Colleton’s escape. She proceed 


260 


GUY RIVERS. 


ed with much of the fervor and manner of one roused into all 
the inspiration of a holy defiance of danger:— 

“Wonder not, therefore, that I tremble—my soul is full of 
joy at his escape. I heed not the sneer and the sarcasm which 
is upon your lips and in your eyes. I went boldly and confi¬ 
dently even into the chamber of the youth — I aroused him from 
his slumbers — I defied, at that moment of peril, what were far 
worse to me than your suspicions—I defied such as might have 
been his. I was conscious of no sin—no improper thought — 
and I called upon God to protect and to sanction me in what I 
had undertaken. He has done so, and I bless him for the 
sanction.” 

She sunk upon her knees as she spoke, and her lips mur¬ 
mured and parted as if in prayer, while the tears—tears of 
gladness—streamed warmly and abundantly from her eyes. 
The rage of the outlaw grew momently darker and less gov¬ 
ernable. The white foam collected about his mouth—while 
his hands, though still retaining their gripe upon hers, trembled 
almost as much as her own. He spoke in broken and and bitter 
words. 

“ And may God curse you for it! You have dared much, 
Lucy Munro, this hour. You have bearded a worse fury than 
the tiger thirsting after blood. What madness prompts you to 
this folly? You have heard me avow my utter, uncontrollable 
hatred of this man—my determination, if possible, to destroy 
him, and yet you interpose. You dare to save him in my defi¬ 
ance. You teach him our designs, and labor to thwart them 
yourself. Hear me, girl! you know me well—you know I 
never threaten without execution. I can. understand how it is 
that a spirit, feeling at this moment as does your own, should 
defy death. But, bethink you—is there nothing in your 
thought which is worse than death, from the terrors of which, 
the pure mind, however fortified by heroic resolution, must still 
shrink and tremble ? Beware, then, how you chafe me. Say 
where the youth has gone, and in this way retrieve, if you can, 
the error which taught you to connive at his escape.” 

“ I know not what you mean, and have no fears of anything 
you can do. On this point I feel secure, and bid you defiance. 
To think now, that, having chiefly effected the escape of the 


THE OUTLAW AND HIb VICTIM. 


261 


youth, 1 would place him again within your power, argues a 
degree of stupidity in me that is wantonly insulting. I tell you 
he har fled, by this time, beyond your reach. I say no more. 
It is enough that he is in safety; before a word of mine puts 
him in danger, I’ll perish by your hands, or any hands.” 

‘‘Then shall you perish, fool!” cried the ruffian; and his 
hand, hurried by the ferocious impulse of his rage, was again 
uplifted, when, in her struggles at freedom, a new object met 
his sight in the chain and portrait which Ralph had flung about 
her neck, and which, now falling from her bosom, arrested his 
attention, and seemed to awaken some recognition in his mind. 
His hold relaxed upon her arm, and with eager haste he seized 
the portrait, tearing it away with a single wrench from the rich 
chain to which it was appended, and which now in broken frag¬ 
ments was strewed upon the floor. 

Lucy sprang towards him convulsively, and vainly endeav¬ 
ored at its recovery. Rivers broke the spring, and his eyes 
gazed with serpent-like fixedness upon the exquisitely-beauti- 
ful features which it developed. His whole appearance under¬ 
went a change. The sternness had departed from his face 
which now put on an air of abstraction and wandering, not 
usually a habit with it. He gazed long and fixedly upon the 
portrait, unheeding the efforts of the girl to obtain it, and mut¬ 
tering at frequent intervals detached sentences, having little 
dependence upon one another :— 

“Ay — it is she,” he exclaimed — “true to the life — bright, 
beautiful, young, innocent—and I — But let me not think !” 

Then turning to the maid — 

“ Fond fool — see you the object of adoration with him whom 
you so unprofitably adore. He loves her , girl—she, whom I 
—but why should I tell it you % is it not enough that we have 
both loved and loved in vain; and, in my revenge, you too shall 
enjoy yours.” 

“I have nothing to revenge, Guy Rivers — nothing for you, 
above all others, to revenge. Give me the miniature; I have 
it in trust, and it must not go out of my possession.” 

She clung to him as she spoke, fruitlessly endeavoring at the 
recovery of that which he studiously kept from her reach. 
He parried her efforts for a while with something of forbear- 


262 


GUY RIVERS. 


ance; but ere long his original temper returned, and he ex¬ 
claimed, with all the air of the demon :— 

“ Why will you tempt me, and why longer should I trifle ? 
You cannot have the picture — it belongs, or should belong, as 
well as its original, to me. My concern is now with the robber 
from whom you obtained it. Will you not say upon what 
route he went? Will you not guide me — and, remember well 
— there are some terrors greater to your mind than any threat 
of death. Declare, for the last time — what road he took.” 

The maiden was ‘still, and showed no sign of reply. Her 
eye wandered—her spirit was in prayer. She was alone with 
a ruffian, irresponsible and reckless, and she had many fears. 

“Will you not speak?” he cried—“then you must hear. 
Disclose the fact, Lucy — say, what is the road, or what the 
course you have directed for this youth’s escape, or—mark me ! 
I have you in my power — my fullest power — with nothing to 
restrain my passion or my power, and—” 

She struggled desperately to release herself from his grasp, 
but he renewed it with all his sinewy strength, enforcing, with 
a vicelike gripe, the consciousness, in her mind, of the futility 
of all her physical efforts. 

“ Do you not hear !” he said. “Do you comprehend me.” 

“ Do your worst!” she cried. “ Kill me ! I defy your power 
and your malice!” 

“ Ha! but do you defy my passions. Hark ye, if ye fear 
not death, there is something worse than death to so romantic a 
damsel, which shall teach ye fear. Obey me, girl—report the 
route taken by this fugitive, or by all that is black in hell or 
bright in heaven, I—” 

And with a whisper, he hissed the concluding and crue* 
threat in the ears of the shuddering and shrinking girl. With a 
husky horror in her voice, she cried out:— 

“ You dare not! monster as you are, you dare not!” thcr 
shrieking, at the full height of her voice—“Save me, uncle! 
save me ! save me !” 

“ Save you ! It is he that dooms you! He has given you 
up to any fate that I shall decree!” 

“ Liar ! away ! I defy you. You dare not, ruffian ! Your 
foul threat is but meant to frighten me.” 


THE OUTLAW AND HIS VICTIM. 


268 


The creeping terrors of her voice, as she spoke, contradicted 
the tenor of her speech. Her fears — quite as extreme as he 
sought to make them — were fully evinced in her trembling 
accents. 

“Frighten you!” answered the ruffian. “Frighten you! 
why, not so difficult a matter either! But it is as easy to do, 
as to threaten—to make you feel as to make you fear — and 
why not 1 why should you not become the thing at once for 
which you have been long destined 1 ? Once certainly mine, 
Lucy Munro, you will abandon the silly notion that you can be 
anything to Ralph Colleton ! Come !—” 

Her shrieks answered him. He clapped his handkerchief 
upon her mouth. 

“ Uncle ! uncle! save me!” 

She was half stifled—she felt breath and strength failing. 
Her brutal assailant was hauling her away, with a force to 
which she could no longer oppose resistance; and with a single 
half-ejaculated prayer— “Oh, God! be merciful!” she sunk 
senselessly at his feet, even as a falling corse. 


264 


GUY RIVERS. 


J 

CHAPTER XXI. 

“THOU SHALT DO NO MURDER!” 

Even at this moment, Munro entered the apartment. He 
came not a moment too soon. Rivers had abused his oppor¬ 
tunity thus far; and it is not to be doubted that he would have 
forborne none of the advantages which his brute strength 
afforded him over the feeble innocent, were it not for the inter¬ 
position of the uncle. He had lied, when he had asserted to 
the girl the sanction of the uncle for his threatened crime. 
Munro was willing that his niece should become the vnfe of the 
outlaw, and barely willing to consent even to this; but for any¬ 
thing less than this—base as he was—he would sooner have 
braved every issue with the ruffian, and perished himself in 
defence of the girl’s virtue. He had his pride of family, 
strange to say, though nursed and nestled in a bosom which 
could boast no other virtue. 

The moment he saw the condition of Lucy, with the grasp 
of Rivers still upon her, he tore her away with the strength of 
a giant. 

“ What have you been doing, Guy V* 

His keen and suspicious glance of eye conveyed the question 
more significantly. 

“ Nothing ! she is a fool only !” 

“ And you have been a brute! Beware! I tell you, Guy 
Rivers, if you but ruffle the hair of this child in violence, I 
will knife you, as soon as I would my worst enemy.” 

“ Pshaw! I only threatened her to make her confess where 
she had sent Colleton or hidden him.” 

“ Ay, but there are some threats, Guy, that call for throat¬ 
cutting. Look to it. We know each other; and you know 
that, though I’m willing you should marry Lucy, I’ll not stand 


THOU SHALT DO NO MURDER. 


265 


by and see you harm her; and, with my permission you lay no 
hands on her, until you are married.” 

“Very well!” answered the ruffian sullenly, and turning 
away, “ see that you get the priest soon ready. I’ll wait upon 
neither man nor woman over long ! You sha’n’t trifle with mo 
much longer.” 

To this speech Munro made no answer. He devoted himself 
to his still insensible niece, whom he raised carefully from the 
floor, and laid her upon a rude settee that stood in the apart¬ 
ment. She meanwhile remained unconscious of his care, which 
was limited to fanning her face and sprinkling water upon it. 

“Why not carry her to her chamber — put her in bed, and 
let us be ofT?” said Rivers. 

“Wait awhile !” was the answer. 

The girl had evidently received a severe shock. Munro 
shook his head, and looked at Rivers angrily. 

“ See to it, Guy, if any harm comes to her.” 

“ Pshaw !” said the other, “ she is recovering now.” 

He was right. The eyes of the sufferer unclosed, but they 
were vacant—they lacked all intelligence. Munro pulled a flask 
of spirits from his pocket, and poured some into her lips. They 
were livid, and her cheeks of ashy paleness. 

“ She recovers—see !” 

The teeth opened and shut together again with a sudden 
spasmodic energy. The eyes began to receive light. Her 
breathing increased. 

“ She will do now,” muttered Munro. “ She will recover 
directly. Get yourself ready, Guy, and prepare to mount, 
while I see that she is put to bed. It’s now a necessity that 
we should push this stranger to the wall, and silence him alto¬ 
gether. I don’t oppose you now, seeing that we’ve got to do it.” 

“Ay,” quoth Rivers, somewhat abstractedly — for he was a 
person of changing and capricious moods—“ ay ! ay ! it has to 
be done ! Well! we will do it! —as for her !” 

Here he drew nigh and grasped the hand of the only half¬ 
conscious damsel, and stared earnestly in her face. Her eyes 
opened largely and wildly upon him, then closed again; a 
shudder passed over her form, and her hand was convulsively 
withdrawn from his grasp. 


12 


266 


GUY RIVERS. 


“ Come, come, let her alone, and be off,” said Munro. “ As 
long as you are here, she’ll be in a fit! See to the horses. 
There’s no use to wait. You little know Lucy Munro if you 
reckon to get anything out of her. You may strike till dooms¬ 
day at her bosom, but, where she’s fixed in principle, she’ll per¬ 
ish before she yields. Nothing can move her when she’s re¬ 
solved. In that she’s the very likeness of her father, who was 
like a rock when he had sworn a thing.” 

“ Ha! but the rock may be split, and the woman’s will must 
be made to yield to a superior. I could soon—” 

He took her hand once more in his iron grasp. 

“Let her go, Guy!” said Munro sternly. “She shall have 
no rough usage while I’m standing by. Remember that! It’s 
true, she’s meddled in matters that didn’t concern her, but there 
is an excuse. It was womanlike to do so, and I can’t blame 
her. She’s a true woman, Guy — all heart and soul—as noble 
a young thing as ever broke the world’s bread — too noble to 
live with such aswe,Guy; and I only wish I had so much man’s 
strength as to be worthy of living with such as she.” 

“ A plague on her nobility! It will cut all our throats, or 
halter us; and your methodistical jargon only encourages her. 
Noble or not, she has been cunning enough to listen to our pri¬ 
vate conversation; has found out all our designs; has blabbed 
everything to this young fellow, and made him master of our 
lives. Yes! would you believe it of her nobleness and deli¬ 
cacy, that she has this night visited him in his very chamber ?” 

“ What!” 

“ Yes ! indeed! and she avows it boldly.” 

“ Ah ! if she avows it, there’s no harm !” 

“ What! no harm ?” 

“ I mean to her. She’s had no bad purpose in going to his 
chamber. I see it all!” 

“Well, and is it not quite enough to drive a man mad, to 
think that the best designs of a man are to be thwarted, and 
his neck put in danger, by the meddling of a thing like this ? 
She has blabbed all our secrets — nay, made him listen to them 
—for, even while we ascended the stairs to his chamber, they 
were concealed in the closet above the stairway, watched all 
our movements, and heard every word we had to say.” 


THOU SHALT DO NO MURDER. 267 

“And you would be talking,” retorted the landloid. The 
other glared at him ferociously, but proceeded : — 

“I heard the sound — their breathing—I told you at the 
time that I heard something stirring in the closet. But you 
had your answer. For an experienced man, Munro, you are 
duller than an owl by daylight.” 

“ I’m afraid so,” answered the other coolly. “ But it’s too 
late now for talk. We must he off and active, if we would be 
doing anything. I’ve been out to the stable, and find that the 
young fellow has taken off hisdiorse. He has been cool enough 
about it, for saddle and bridle are both gone. He’s had time 
enough to gear up in proper style, while you were so eloquent 
along the stairs. I reckon there was something to scare him 
off at last, however, for here’s his dirk — I suppose it’s his— 
which I found at the stable-door. He must have dropped it 
when about to mount.” 

“ ’Tis his !” said Rivers, seizing and examining it. “ It is the 
weapon he drew on me at the diggings.” 

“ He has the start of us—” 

“ But knows nothing of the woods. It is not too late. Let 
us be off. Lucy is recovering, and you can now leave her in 
safety. She will find the way to lier chamber—or to some 
chamber. It seems that she lias no scruples in going to any.” 

“ Stop that, Guy ! Don’t slander the girl.” 

“ Pooh ! are you going to set up for a sentimentalist ?” 

“No: but if you can’t learn to stop talking, I shall set you 
down as a fool! For a man of action, you use more of an un¬ 
necessary tongue than any living man I ever met. For God’s 
sake, sink the lawyer when you’re out of court! It will be 
high time to brush up for a speech when you are in the dock, 
and pleading with the halter dangling in your eyes. Oh, don’t 
glare upon me ! He who flings about his arrows by the hand- 
fill mustn’t be angry if some of them are flung back.” 

“Are you ready ?” 

“Ay, ready! — She’s opening her eyes. We can leave her 
now.—What’s the course?” 

“ We can determine in the open air. He will probably go 
west, and will take one or other of the two traces at the fork, 
and his hoofs will soon tell us which. Our horses are refreshed 


268 


GUY RIVERS. 


by 1 his, and arer, uncle Finess. You have pistols: see to the 
flints and primu league wre must be no scruples now. The mat¬ 
ter has gor. are bound mr for quiet, and though the affair was 
all mine ? I could!” vow as perfectly yours.” 

As Riveffe jpoke, Munro drew forth his pistols and looked 
carefully at the priming. The sharp click of the springing 
steel, as the pan was thrown open, now fully aroused Lucy to 
that consciousness which had been only partial in the greater 
part of this dialogue. Springing to her feet with an eagerness 
and energy that was quite astonishing after her late prostration, 
she rushed forward to her uncle, and looked appealingly into 
his face, though she did not speak, while her hand grasped te¬ 
naciously his arm. 

“ What means the girl V* exclaimed Munro, now apprehen¬ 
sive of some mental derangement. She spoke, with a deep 
emphasis, but a single sentence: — 

“ It is written — thou shalt do no murder !” 

The solemn tone—the sudden, the almost fierce action—the 
peculiar abruptness of the apostrophe — the whitely-robed, the 
almost spiritual elevation of figure—all so dramatic — combined 
necessarily to startle and surprise; and, for a few moments, no 
answer was returned to the unlooked-for speech. But the effect 
could not be permanent upon minds made familiar with the 
thousand forms of human and strong energies. Munro, after a 
brief pause, replied— 

“ Who speaks of murder, girl ? Why this wild, this uncalled- 
for exhortation V' 

“ Not wild, not uncalled-for, uncle, but most necessary. Where¬ 
fore would you pursue the youth, arms in your hands, hatred in 
your heart, and horrible threatenings upon your lips ? Why put 
yourself into the hands of this fierce monster, as the sharp in¬ 
strument to do his vengeance and gratify his savage malignity 
against the young and the gentle ? If you would do no murder, 
not so he. He will do it—he will make you do it, but he will 
have it done. Approach me not — approach me not — let me 
perish, rather ! 0 God—my uncle, let him come not near me, 

if you would not see me die upon the spot!” she exclaimed, in 
the most terrified manner, and with a shuddering horror,' as 
Rivers, toward the conclusion of her speech, had approached 


THOU SHALT DO NO Y 


269 


her with the view to an answer. Tc cle she again ad¬ 
dressed herself, with an energy which i.ional emphasis 

to her language: — 

“Uncle—you are my father now —j forget the 

dying prayer of a brother ! My prayer is his. • j^tGp that man 
from me—let me not see him—let him come not near me with 
his polluted and polluting breath ! You know not what he is 
—you know him but as a stabber — as a hater—as a thief! 
But were my knowledge yours—could I utter in your ears the 
foul language, the fiend-threatenings which his accursed lips 
uttered in mine!—but no — save me from him is all I ask— 
protect the poor orphan — the feeble, the trampled child of 
your brother! Keep me from the presence of that bad man!” 

As she spoke, she sank at the feet of the person she ad¬ 
dressed, her hands were clasped about his knees, and she lay 
there shuddering and shrinking, until he lifted her up in his 
arms. Somewhat softened by his kindness of manner, the pres¬ 
sure upon her brain of that agony was immediately relieved, 
and a succession of tears and sobs marked the diminished influ¬ 
ence of her terrors. But, as Rivers attempted something in 
reply, she started— 

“Let me go—let me not hear him speak! His breath is 
pollution — his words are full of foul threats and dreadful 
thoughts. If you knew all that I know — if you feared what I 
fear, uncle — you would nigh slay him on the spot.” 

This mental suffering of his niece was not without its influ¬ 
ence upon her uncle, who, as we have said before, had a certain 
kind and degree of pride — pride of character we may almost 
call it — not inconsistent with pursuits and a condition of life 
wild and wicked even as his. His eye sternly settled upon 
that of his companion, as, without a word, he bore the almost 
lifeless girl into the chamber of his wife, who, aroused by the 
clamor, had now and then looked forth upon the scene, but was 
too much the creature of timidity to venture entirely amid the 
disputants. Placing her under the charge of the old lady, 
Munro uttered a few consolatory words in Lucy’s ear, but she 
heard him not. Her thoughts evidently wandered to other than 
selfish considerations at that moment, and, as he left the cham¬ 
ber, she raised her finger inrpressively: — 


270 


GUY RIVERS. 


“ Do no murder, uncle P. let him not persuade you into crime; 
break off from i. league wdiich compels you to brook a foul insult 
to those you are bound m duty to protect.” 

“Would I could !” was his muttered sentence as he left the 
chamber. R*, £elt the justice of the counsel, but wore the be¬ 
wildered expression of countenance of one conscious of what is 
right, but wanting courage for its adoption. 

“ She has told you no foolish story of me ?” was the somewhat 
anxious speech of Rivers upon the reappearance of the land¬ 
lord. 

“ She has said nothing in plain words, Guy Rivers—but yet 
quite enough to make me doubt whether you, and not this boy 
we pursue, should not have my weapon in your throat. But 
beware! The honor of that child of Edgar Munro is to me 
what would have been my own; and let me find that you have 
gone a tittle beyond the permitted point, in speech or action, 
and we cut asunder. I shall then make as little bones of put¬ 
ting a bullet through your ribs as into those of the wild bullock 
of the hills. I am what I am : my hope is that she may always 
be the pure creature which she now is, if it were only that she 
might pray for me.” 

“ She has mistaken me, Munro —” 

“ Say no more, Guy. She has not much mistaken you, or I 
have. Let us speak no more on this subject; you know my 
mind, and will be advised. — Let us now be off. The horses 
are in readiness, and waiting, and a good spur will bring us up 
with the game. The youth, you say, has money about him, a 
gold watch, and—” 

The more savage ruffian grinned as he listened to these words 
They betrayed the meaner motives of action in the case of the 
companion, who could acknowledge the argument of cupidity, 
while insensible to that of revenge. 

“Ay! enough to pay you for your share in the performance 
Do your part well, and you shall have all that he carries— 
gold, watch, trinkets, horse, everything. I shall be quite con 
tent to take—his life! Are you satisfied 1 ? Are there any 
scruples now ?” 

“ No! none! I have no scruples! But to cut a throat, or 
blow out a man’s liver with a brace of bullets, is a work that 


THOU SHALT DO NO MURDER. 


271 


should be well paid for. The performance is by no means so 
agreeable that one should seek to do it for nothing.” 

Guy Rivers fancied himself a nobler animal than his compan¬ 
ion, as he felt that he needed not the mercenary motive for the 
performance of the murderous action. 

They were mounted, the horses being ready for them in the 
rear of the building. 

“Round the hollow. We’ll skirt the village, and not go 
through it,” said Munro. “We may gain something on the 
route to the fork of the roads by taking the blind track by the 
red hill.” 

“As you will. Go ahead !” 

A few more words sufficed to arrange the route, and regulate 
their pursuit, and a few moments sufficed to send them off in 
full speed over the stony road, both with a common and desper¬ 
ate purpose, but each moved by arguments and a passion of his 
own. 

In her lonely chamber, Lucy Munro, now recovered to acutest 
consciousness, heard the tread of their departing hoofs; and, 
lasping her hands, she sank upon her knees, yielding up her 
whole soul to silent prayer., The poor girl never slept that 
id i'll t 


272 


GUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE BLOODY DEED. 

Let us leave the outlaws to their progress for a brief space, 
while we gather up and pursue for awhile some other clues of 
our story. 

We have witnessed the separation of Mark Forrester from 
his sweetheart, at the place of trysting. The poor fellow had 
recovered some of his confidence in himself and fortune, and was 
now prepared to go forth with a new sentiment of hope within 
his bosom. The sting was in a degree taken from his con¬ 
science—his elastic and sanguine temperament contributed to 
this — and with renewed impulses to adventure, and with new 
anticipations of the happiness that we all dream to find in life; 
the erring, but really honest fellow, rode fearlessly through the 
dim forests, without needing more auspicious lights than those 
of the kindling moon and stars. The favor of old Allen, the 
continued love of Kate, the encouragements of young Colleton, 
his own feeling of the absence of any malice in his heart, even 
while committing his crime, and the farther fact that he was 
well-mounted, and speeding from the region where punishment 
threatened—all these were influences which conspired to lessen, 
in his mind, the griefs of his present privation, and the lonely 
emotions which naturally promised to accompany him in his 
solitary progress. 

His course lay for the great Southwest—the unopened forests, 
and mighty waters of the Mississippi valley. Here, he was to 
begin a new life. Unknown, he would shake off the fears which 
his crime necessarily inspired. Respited from death and dan¬ 
ger, he would atone for it by penitence and honest works. Kate 
Allen should be his solace, and there would be young and lovely 


THE BLOODY DEED. 273 

children smiling around his board. Such were the natural 
dreams of the young and sanguine exile. 

“But who shall ride from his destiny?” saitli the proverb. 
The wing of the bird is no security against the shaft of the 
fowler, and the helmet and the shield keep not away the draught 
that is poisoned. He who wears the greaves, the gorget, and 
the coat-of-mail, holds defiance to the storm of battle; but he 
drinks and dies in the hall of banqueting. What matters it, 
too, though the eagle soars and screams among the clouds, half¬ 
way up to heaven — flaunting his proud pinions, and glaring 
with audacious glance in the very eye of the sun—death waits 
for him in the quiet of his own eyry, nestling with his brood. 
These are the goodly texts of the Arabian sage, in whose 
garden-tree, so much was he the beloved of heaven, the birds 
came and nightly sang for him those solemn truths—those 
lessons of a perfect wisdom — which none but the favored of 
the Deity are ever permitted to hear. They will find a suffi¬ 
cient commentary in the fortune of the rider whom we have 
just beheld setting out from his parting with his mistress, on his 
way of new adventure—his heart comparatively light, and 
his spirit made buoyant with the throng of pleasant fancies 
which continually gathered in his thought. 

The interview between Forrester and his mistress had been 
somewhat protracted, and his route from her residence to the 
road in which we find him, being somewhat circuitous, the night 
had waned considerably ere he had made much progress. He 
now rode carelessly, as one who mused—his horse, not urged 
by its rider, became somewhat careful of his vigor, and his 
gait was moderated much from that which had marked his out¬ 
set. He had entered upon the trace through a thick wood, 
when the sound of other hoofs came down upon the wind; not 
to his ears, for, swallowed up in his own meditations, his senses 
had lost much of their wonted acuteness. He had not been 
long gone from the point of the road in which we found him, 
when his place upon the same route was supplied by the pur¬ 
suing party, Rivers and Munro. They were both admirably 
mounted, and seemed little to regard, in their manner of using 
them, the value of the good beasts which they bestrode— 
driving them as tliev did, resolutely over fallen trees and jut 

12 * 


274 


GUY RIVERS. 


ting rocks, their sides already dashed with foam, and the flanks 
bloody with the repeated application of the rowel. It was 
soon evident that farther pursuit at such a rate would be impos¬ 
sible : and Munro, as well for the protection of the horses, as 
with a knowledge of this necessity, insisted upon a more mod¬ 
erated and measured pace. 

Much against his own will, Rivers assented, though his im¬ 
patience frequent found utterance in words querulously sarcastic. 
The love of gain was a besetting sin of the landlord, and it was 
by this passion that his accomplice found it easy, on most occa¬ 
sions, to defeat the suggestions of his better judgment. The 
tauntings of the former, therefore, were particularly bestowed 
upon this feature in his character, as he found himself compelled 
to yield to the requisition of the latter, with whom the value 
of the horses was no small consideration. 

“Well, well,” said Rivers, “if you say so, it must be so; 
though I am sure, if we push briskly ahead, we shall find our 
bargain in it. You too will find the horse of the youth, upon 
which you had long since set your eyes and heart, a full equiva¬ 
lent, even if we entirely ruin the miserable beasts we ride.” 

“ The horse you ride is no miserable beast,” retorted the 
landlord, who had some of the pride of a southron in this particu¬ 
lar, and seemed solicitous for the honor of his stud—“ you have 
jaded him by your furious gait, and seem entirely insensible to 
the fact that our progress for the last half hour, continued much 
longer, would knock up any animal. I’m not so sure, too, Guy, 
that we shall find the youngster, or that we shall be able to get 
our own bargain out of him when found. He’s a tough colt, I 
take it, and will show fight unless you surprise him.” 

“ Stay—hear you nothing now, as the wind sets up from be¬ 
low ? Was not that the tramping of a horse ?” 

They drew up cautiously as the inquiry was put by Rivers, 
and pausing for a few minutes, listened attentively. Munro 
dismounted, and laying his ear to the ground, endeavored to 
detect and distinguish the distant sounds, which, in that way, 
may be heard with far greater readiness; but he arose without 
being satisfied. 

“ You hear nothing V 9 

“ Not a sou id but that which we make ourselves. Your ears 


THE BLOODY DEED. 


275 


fco-niglit are marvellous quick, but they catch nothing. This is 
the third time to-night you have fancied sounds, and heard 
what I could not; and I claim to have senses in quite as high 
perfection as your own.” 

“ And without doubt you have; but, know you not, Munro, 
that wherever the passions are concerned, the senses become so 
much more acute; and, indeed, are so many sentinels and spies 
— scouring about perpetually, and with this advantage over all 
other sentinels, that they then never slumber. So, whether one 
hate or love, the ear and the eye take heed of all that is going 
on—they minister to the prevailing passion, and seem, in their 
own exercise, to acquire some of the motive and impulse which 
belong to it.” 

“ I believe this in most respects to be the case. I have ob¬ 
served it on more than one occasion myself, and in my own 
person. But, Guy, in all that you have said, and all that I 
have seen, I do not yet understand why it is that you entertain 
such a mortal antipathy to this young man, more than to many 
others who have at times crossed your path. I now understand 
the necessity for putting him out of the way; but this is another 
matter. Before we thought it possible that he could injure us, 
you had the same violent hatred, and would have destroyed 
him at the first glance. There is more in this, Guy, than you 
have been willing to let out; and I look upon it as strange, to 
say nothing more, that I should be kept so much in the dark 
upon the subject.” 

Rivers smiled grimly at the inquiry, and replied at once, 
though with evident insincerity,— 

“Perhaps my desire to get rid of him, then, arose from a 
presentiment that we should have to do it in the end. You 
know I have a gift of foreseeing and foretelling.” 

“ This won’t do for me, Guy; I know you too well to regard 
you as one likely to be influenced by notions of this nature — 
you must put me on some other scent.” 

“Why, so I would, Wat, if I were assured that I myself 
knew the precise impulse which sets me on this work. But the 
fact is, my hate to the boy springs from certain influences which 
may not be defined by name—which grow out of those moral 
mysteries of our nature, for which we can scarcely account to 


276 


GUY RIVERS. 


ourselves; and, by the operation of which, we are led to the 
performance of things seemingly without any adequate cause or 
necessity. A few reflections might give you the full force of 
this. Why do some men shrink from a cat? There is an 
instance now in John Bremer; a fellow, you know, who would 
make no more ado about exchanging rifle-shots with his enemy 
at twenty paces, than at taking dinner; yet a black cat throws 
him into fits, from which for two days he never perfectly re¬ 
covers. Again—there are some persons to whom the perfume 
of flowers brings sickness, and the song of a bird sadness. 
How are we to account for all these things, unless we do so by 
a reference to the peculiar make of the man ? In this way you 
may understand why it is that I hate this boy, and would de¬ 
stroy him. He is my black cat, and his presence for ever 
throws me into fits.” 

“ I have heard of the things of which you speak, and have 
known some of them myself; but I never could believe that 
the nature of the person had been the occasion. I was always 
inclined to think that circumstances in childhood, of which the 
recollection is forgotten — such as great and sudden fright to 
the infant, or a blow which affected the brain, were the oper¬ 
ating influences. All these things, however, only affect the 
fancies—they beget fears and notions — never deep and abiding 
hatred—unquiet passion, and long-treasured malignity, such as 
I find in you on this occasion.” 

“Upon this point, Munro, you may be correct. I do not 
mean to say that hatred and a desire to destroy are consequent 
to antipathies such as you describe; but still, something may 
be said in favor of such a notion. It appears to me but natural 
to seek the destruction of that which is odious or irksome taany 
of our senses. Why do you crush the crawling spider with your 
heel ? You fear not its venom; inspect it, and the mechanism 
of its make, the architecture of its own fabrication, are, to the 
full, as wonderful as anything within your comprehension; but 
yet, without knowing why, with an impulse given you, as it 
would seem, from infancy, you seek its destruction with a per¬ 
severing industry, which might lead one to suppose you had in 
view your direst enemy.” 

“ This is all very true; and from infancy up we do this thing. 


THE BLOODY DEED. 


277 


but the cause can not be in any loathsomeness which its pres¬ 
ence occasions in the mind, for we perceive the same boy de¬ 
stroying with measured torture? *:he gaudiest butterfly which his 
hat can encompass.” 

“ Non sequitur ,” said Rivers. 

“ What’s that? some of your d-d law gibberish, I suppose. 

If you want me to talk with you at all, Guy, you must speak in 
a language I understand.” 

“ Why, so I will, Wat. I only meant to say, in a phrase 
common to the law, and which your friend Pippin makes use 
of a dozen times a day, that it did not follow from what you 
said, that the causes which led to the death of the spider and 
the butterfly were the same. This we may know by the man¬ 
ner in which they are respectively destroyed. The boy, with 
much precaution and an aversion he does not seek to disguise 
in his attempts on the spider, employs his shoe or a stick for the 
purpose of slaughter. But, with the butterfly, the case is alto 
gether different. He first catches, and does not fear to hold it 
in his hand. He inspects it closely, and proceeds to analyze 
that which his young thought has already taught him is a beau 
tiful creation of the insect world. He strips it, wing by wing 
of its gaudy covering; and then, with a feeling of ineffable 
scorn, that so wealthy a noble should go unarmed and unpro¬ 
tected, he dashes him to the ground, and terminates his suffer¬ 
ings without further scruple. The spider, having a sting, he is 
compelled to fear, and consequently taught to respect. The 
feelings are all perfectly natural, however, which prompt his 
proceedings. The curiosity is common and innate which im¬ 
pels him to the inspection of the insect; and that feeling is 
equally a natural impulse which prompts him to the death of 
the spider without hesitation. So with me — it is enough that 
I hate this boy, though possessed of numberless attractions of 
mind and person. Shall I do him the kindness to inquire 
whether there be reason for the mood which prompts me to 
destroy him ?” 

“ You were always too much for me, Guy, at this sort of ar¬ 
gument, and you talk the matter over ingeniously enough, I 
grant; but still I am not satisfied, that a mere antipathy, with¬ 
out show of reason, originally induced your dislike to this 


278 


(JUY RIVERS. 


young man. When you first sought to do him up, you 
were conscious of this, and gave, as a reason for the desire, 
the cut upon your face, which so much disfigured your loveli¬ 
ness.” 

Rivers did not appear very much to relish or regard this 
speech, which had something of satire in it; but he was wise 
enough to restrain his feelings, as, reverting back to their 
original topic, he spoke in the following manner :— 

“ You are unusually earnest after reasons and motives for ac¬ 
tion, to-night: is it not strange, Munro, that it has never oc¬ 
casioned surprise in your mind, that one like myself, so far 
superior in numerous respects to the men I have consented to 
lead and herd with, should have made such my profession ?” 

“ Not at all,” was the immediate and ready response of his 
companion. “Not at all. This was no mystery to me, for I 
very well knew that you had no choice, no alternative. What 
else could you have done? Outlawed and under sentence, I 
knew that you could never return, in any safety or security, 
whatever might be your disguise, to the society which had 
driven you out—and I’m sure that your chance would be but 
a bad one were you to seek a return to the old practice at 
Gwinnett courthouse. Any attempt there to argue a fellow out 
of the halter would be only to argue yourself into it.” 

“Pshaw, Munro, that is the case now—that is the necessity 
and difficulty of to-day. But where, and what was the neces¬ 
sity, think you, when, in the midst of good practice at Gwinnett 
bar, wffiere I ruled without competitor, riding roughshod over 
bench, bar, and jury, dreaded alike by all, I threw myself into 
the ranks of these men, and put on their habits ? I speak not 
now' in praise of myself, more than the facts, as you yourself 
know them, will sufficiently warrant. I am now above those 
idle vanities which w r ould make me deceive myself as to my 
own mental merits; but, that such was my standing there and 
then, I hold indisputable.” 

“ It is true. I sometimes look back and laugh at the manner 
in which you used to bully the old judge, and the gaping jury, 
and your own brother lawyers, while the foam would run 
through your clenched teeth and from your lips in very pas¬ 
sion ; and then I wonder ad, when you were doing so well, that 


THE BLOODY DEED. 279 

you ever gave up there, to undertake a business, the very first 
job in which put your neck in danger.” 

“ You may well wonder, Munro. I could not well explain 
the mystery to myself, were I to try; and it is this which made 
the question and doubt which we set out to explain. To those 
who knew me well from the first, it is not matter of surprise 
that I should be for ever in excitements of one kind or another. 
From my childhood up, my temper was of a restless and un¬ 
quiet character—I was always a peevish, a fretful and discon¬ 
tented person. I looked with scorn and contempt upon the 
humdrum ways of those about me, and longed for perpetual 
change, and wild and stirring incidents. My passions, always 
fretful and excitable, were never satisfied except when I was 
employed in some way which enabled me to feed and keep 
alive the irritation which was their and my very breath of life. 
With such a spirit, how could I be what men style and consider 
a good man ? What folly to expect it. Virtue is hut a sleepy, 
in-door, domestic quality—inconsistent with enterprise or great 
activity. There are no drones so perfect in the world as the truly 
orthodox. Hence the usual superiority of a dissenting, over an 
established church. It is for this reason, too, and from this 
cause, that a great man is seldom, if ever, a good one. It is in¬ 
consistent with the very nature of things to expect it, unless it 
be from a co-operation of singular circumstances, whose return 
is with the comets. Vice, on the contrary, is endowed with 
strong passions—a feverish thirst after forbidden fruits and 
waters — a bird-nesting propensity, that carries it away from 
the haunts of the crowded city, into strange wilds and inter¬ 
minable forests. It lives upon adventure—it counts its years 
by incidents, and has no other mode of computing time or of 
enjoying life. This fact—and it is undeniable with respect to 
both the parties—will furnish a sufficient reason why the best 
heroes of the best poets are always great criminals. Were this 
not the case, from what would the interest he drawn?—where 
would be the incident, if all men, pursuing the quiet paths of 
non-interference with the rights, the lives, or the liberties of 
one another, spilt no blood, invaded no territory, robbed no 
lord of his lady, enslaved and made no captives in war ? A 
virtuous hero would he a useless personage both in play and 


280 


GUY RIVERS. 


poem — and the spectator or reader would fall asleep over the 
utterance of stale apothegms. What writer of sense, for in¬ 
stance, would dream of bringing up George Washington to fig¬ 
ure in either of these forms before the world — and how, if he 
did so, would he prevent reader or auditor from getting exces¬ 
sively tired, and perhaps disgusted, with one, whom all men 
are now agreed to regard as the hero of civilization ? Nor do 
I utter sentiments which are subjects either of doubt or dispu¬ 
tation. I could put the question in such a form as would bring 
the million to agree with me. Look, for instance, at the execu¬ 
tion of a criminal. See the thousands that will assemble, day 
after day, after travelling miles for that single object, to gape 
and gaze upon the last agonizing pangs and paroxsyms of a 
fellow-creature—not regarding for an instant the fatigue of 
their position, the press of the crowd, or the loss of a dinner — 
totally insusceptible, it would seem, of the several influences of 
heat and cold, wind and rain, which at any other time would 
drive them to their beds or firesides. The same motive which 
provokes this desire in the spectator, is the parent, to a certain 
extent, of the very crime which has led to the exhibition. It 
is the morbid appetite, which sometimes grows to madness — 
the creature of unregulated passions, ill-judged direction, and 
sometimes, even of the laws and usages of society itself, which 
is so much interested in the promotion of characteristics the 
very reverse. It may be that I have more of this perilous stuff 
about me than the generality of mankind; but I am satisfied 
there are few of them, taught as I have been, and the prey of 
like influences, whose temper had been very different from 
mine. The early and operating circumstances under which I 
grew up, all tended to the rank growth and encouragement of 
the more violent and vexing passions. I was the victim of a 
tyranny, which, in the end, made me too a tyrant. To feel, 
myself, and exercise the temper thus taught me, I had to ac¬ 
quire power in order to secure victims; and all my aims in life, 
all my desires, tended to this one pursuit. Indifferent to me, 
alike, the spider who could sting, or the harmless butterfly 
whose only offensiveness is in the folly of his wearing a glitter 
which he can not take care of. I was a merciless enemy, giv 


THE BLOODY DEED. 281 

ing no quarter; and with an Islimaelitisli spirit, lifting my 
hand against all the tribes that were buzzing around me.” 

“ I believe you have spoken the truth, Guy, so far as your 
particular qualities of temper are concerned; for, had I under¬ 
taken to have spoken for you in relation to this subject, I. 
should probably have said, though not to the same degree, the 
same thing; but the wonder with me is, how, with such feel¬ 
ings, you should have so long remained in quiet, and in some 
respects, perfectly harmless.” 

“ There is as little mystery in the one as in the other. You 
may judge that my sphere of action — speaking of action in a 
literal sense—was rather circumscribed at Gwinnett courthouse : 
but, the fact is, T was then but acquiring my education. I was, 
for the first time, studying rogues, and the study of rogues is 
not unaptly fitted to make one take up the business. J, at least, 
found it to have that effect. But, even at Gwinnett courthouse, 
learning as I did, and what I did, there was one passion, or 
perhaps a modified form of the ruling passion, which might have 
swallowed up all the rest had time been allowed it. I was 
young, and not free from vanity; particularly as, for the first 
time, my ears had been won with praise and gentle flatteries. 
The possession of early, and afterward undisputed talents, ac¬ 
quired for me deference and respect; and I was soon tempted 
to desire the applauses of the swinish multitude, and to feel a 
thirsting after public distinction. In short, I grew ambitious. 
I soon became sick and tired of the applauses, the fame, of my 
own ten-mile horizon; its origin seemed equivocal, its worth and 
quality questionable, at the best. My spirit grew troubled with 
a wholesale discontent, and roved in search of a wider field, a 
more elevated and extensive empire. But how could I, the 
petty lawyer of a county court, in the midst of a wilderness, 
appropriate time, find means and opportunities even for travel 1 
I was poor, and profits are few to a small lawyer, whose best 
cases are paid for by a bale of cotton or a negro, when both of 
them are down in the market. In vain, and repeatedly, did I 
struggle with circumstances that for ever foiled me in my de¬ 
sires ; until, in a rash and accursed hour, when chance, and you, 
and the devil, threw the opportunity for crime in my path ! It 
did not escape me, and—but you know the rest.” 


282 


GUY RIVERS. 


“ I do, but would rather hegtr you tell it. When you speak 
thus, you put me in mind of some of the stump-speeches you 
used to make when you ran for the legislature.” 

“Ay, that was another, and not-the least of the many re¬ 
verses which my ambition was doomed to meet with. You 
knew the man who opposed me; you know that a more shallow 
and insignificant fop and fool never yet dared to thrust his head 
into a deliberative^ assembly. But, he was rich, and I poor. 
He a potato, the growth of the soil; I, though generally admit¬ 
ted a plant of more promise and pretension — I was an exotic! 
He was a patrician — one of the small nobility—a growth, sui 
generis, of the place—” 

“ Damn your law-phrases! stop with that, if you please.” 

“Well, well! he was one of the great men; I was a poor 
plebeian, whose chief misfortune, at that time, consisted in my 
not having a father or a great-grandfather a better man than 
myself! His money did the work, and I was bought and beat 
out of my election, which I considered certain. I then acquired 
knowledge of two things. I learned duly to estimate the value 
of the democratic principle, when I beheld the vile slaves, whose 
votes his money had commanded, laughing in scorn at the mis¬ 
erable creature they had themselves put over them. They felt 
not—not they — the double shame of their doings. They felt 
that he was King Log, but never felt how despicable they were 
as his subjects. This taught me, too, the value of money—its 
wonderful magic and mystery. In the mood occasioned by all 
these things, you found me, for the first time, and in a ready 
temper for any villany. You attempted to console me for my 
defeats, but I heard you not until you spoke of revenge. I 
was not then to learn how to be vindictive : I had always been 
so. I knew, by instinct, how to lap blood; you only taught me 
how to scent it! My first great crime proved my nature. Per¬ 
formed under your direction, though without your aid, it was 
wantonly cruel in its execution, since the prize desired might 
readily have been obtained without the life of its possessor. 
You, more merciful than myself, would have held me back, and 
arrested my stroke; but that would have been taking from the 
repast its finish : the pleasure, for it was such to me in my con¬ 
dition of mind, would have been lost entirely. It may sound 


THE BLOODY DEED. 


288 


strangely even in your ears when I say so, but I could no more 
have kept my knife from that man’s throat than I could have 
taken wing for the heavens. He was a poor coward; made no 
struggle, and begged most piteously for his life; had the auda¬ 
city to talk of his great possessions, his rank in society, his wife 
and children. These were enjoyments all withheld from me; 
these were the very things the want of which had made me 
what I was — what I am — and furiously I struck my weapon 
into his mouth, silencing his insulting speech. Should such a 
mean spirit as his have joys which were denied to me? I 
spurned his quivering carcass with my foot. At that moment 
I felt myself; I had something to live for. I knew my appe¬ 
tite, and felt that it was native. I had acquired a knowledge 
of a new luxury, and ceased to wonder at the crimes of a Nero 
and a Caligula. Think you, Munro, that the thousands who 
assemble at the execution of a criminal trouble themselves to in¬ 
quire into the merits of his case — into the justice of his death 
and punishment ? Ask they whether he is the victim of justice 
or of tyranny? No ! they go to see a show—they love blood, 
and in this way have the enjoyment furnished to their hands, 
without the risk which must follow the shedding of it for them¬ 
selves.” 

“ There is one thing, Guy, upon which I never thought to 
ask you. What became of that beautiful young girl from Car¬ 
olina, on a visit to the village, when you lost your election? 
You were then cavorting about her in great style, and I could 
see that you were well nigh as much mad after her as upon the 
loss of the seat.” 

Rivers started at the inquiry in astonishment. He had never 
fancied that, in such matters, Munro had been so observant, and 
for a few moments gave no reply. He evidently winced be¬ 
neath the inquiry; but he soon recovered himself, however— 
for, though at times exhibiting the passions of a demoniac, he 
was too much of a proficient not to be able, in the end, to com¬ 
mand the coolness of the villain. 

“ I had thought to have said nothing on this subject, Munro, 
but there are few things which escape your observation. In 
replying to you on this point, you will now have all the mys¬ 
tery explained of my rancorous pursuit of this boy. That girl 


284 


GUY RIVERS. 


— then a mere girl—refused me, as perhaps you know; and 
when, heated with wine and irritated with rejection, I pressed 
the point rather too warmly, she treated me with contempt and 
withdrew from the apartment. This youth is the favored, the 
successful rival. Look upon this picture, Walter—now, while 
the moon streams hrough the branches upon it—and wonder 
not that it maddened, and still maddens me, to think that, for 
his smooth face and aristocratic airs of superiority, I was to be 
sacrificed and despised. She was probably a year younger than 
himself; but I saw at the time, though both of them appeared 
unconscious of the fact, that she loved him then. What with 
her rejection and scorn, coming at the same time with my elec¬ 
tion defeat, I am what I am. These defeats were wormwood 
to my soul; and, if I am criminal, the parties concerned in them 
have been the cause of the crime.” 

“A very consoling argument, if you could only prove it!” 

“Very likely — you are not alone. The million would say 
with yourself. But hear the case as I put it, and not as it is 
put by the majority. Providence endowed me with a certain 
superiority of mind over my fellows. I had capacities which 
they had not — talents to which they did not aspire, and the 
possession of which they readily conceded to me. These tal¬ 
ents fitted me for certain stations in society, to which, as I had 
the talents pre-eminently for such stations, the inference is fair 
that Providence intended me for some such stations. But I was 
denied my place. Society, guilty of favoritism and prejudice, 
gave to others, not so well fitted as myself for its purposes or 
necessities, the station in all particulars designed for me. I 
was denied my birthright, and rebelled. Can society com¬ 
plain, when prostituting herself and depriving me of my rights, 
that I resisted her usurpation and denied her authority 1 Shall 
she, doing wrong herself in the first instance, undertake to pun¬ 
ish ? Surely not. My rights were admitted—my superior ca¬ 
pacity : but the people were rotten to the core; they had not 
even the virtue of truth to themselves. They made their own 
governors of the vilest and the worst. They willingly became 
slaves, and are punished in more ways than one. They first 
create the tyrants—for tyrants are the creatures of the people 
they sway, and never make themselves; they next drive into 


:he bloody deed. 


285 


banishment their more legitimate rulers; and the consequence, 
in the third place, is, that they make enemies of those whom 
they exile. Such is the case with me, and such — but hark! 
That surely is the tread of a horse. Do you hear it ? there is 
no mistake now—” and as he spoke, the measured trampings 
were heard resounding at some distance, seemingly in advance 
of them. 

“We must now use the spur, Munro; your horses have had 
indulgence enough for the last hour, and we may tax them a 
little now.” 

“ Well, push on as you please; but do you know anything of 
this route, and what course will you pursue in doing him up V’ 

“ Leave all that to me. As for the route, it is an old acquaint¬ 
ance ; and the blaze on this tree reminds me that we can here 
have a short cut which will carry us at a good sweep round this 
hill, bringing us upon the main trace about two miles farther 
down. We must take this course, and spur on, that we may 
get ahead of him, and be quietly stationed when he comes. 
We shall gain it, I am confident, before our man, who seems to 
be taking it easily. He will have three miles at the least to 
go, and over a road that will keep him in a walk half the way. 
We shall be there in time.” 

They reached the point proposed in due season. Their vic¬ 
tim had not yet made his appearance, and they had sufficient 
time for all their arrangements. The place was one well calcu¬ 
lated for the successful accomplishment of a deed of darkness. 
The road at the foot of the hill narrowed into a path scarcely 
wide enough for the passage of a single horseman. The shrub¬ 
bery and copse on either sine overhung it, and in many places 
were so thickly interwoven, that when, as at intervals of the 
nighl, the moon shone out among the thick and broken clouds 
which hung upon and mostly obscured her course, her scattered 
rays scarcely penetrated the dense enclosure. 

At length the horseman approached, and in silence. De¬ 
scending the hill, his motion was slow and tedious. He entered 
the fatal avenue; and, when in the midst of it, Rivers started 
from the side of his comrade, and, advancing under the shelter 
of a tree, awaited his progress. He came—no word was spo¬ 
ken—a single stroke was given, and the horseman, throwing 


280 


GUY RIVERS. 


up his hands, grasped the limb which projected over, while his 
horse passed from under him. He held on for a moment to the 
branch, while a groan of deepest agony broke from his lips, 
when he fell supine to the ground. At that moment, the moon 
shone forth unimpeded and unobscured by a single cloud. The 
person of the wounded man was fully apparent to the sight. 
He struggled, but spoke not; and the hand of Rivers was again 
uplifted, when Munro rushed forward. 

“Stay — away, Guy!—we are mistaken — this is not our 
man!” 

The victim heard the words, and, with something like an 
effort at a laugh, though seemingly in great agony, exclaim¬ 
ed— 

“Ah, Munro, is that you ?— I am so glad ! but I’m afraid you 
come too late. This is a cruel blow; and — for what? What 
have I done to you, that—oh !—” 

The tones of the voice—the person of the suffering man— 
were now readily distinguishable. 

“ Good God! Rivers, what is to be the end of all this blun¬ 
dering ?” 

“ Who would have thought to find him here ?” was the fero¬ 
cious answer; the disappointed malice of the speaker prompting 
him to the bitterest feelings against the unintended victim — 
“ why was he in the way ? he is always in the way!” 

“ I am afraid you’ve done for him.” 

“We must be sure of it.” 

“ Great God ! would you kill him ?” 

“ Why not ? It must be done now.” . 

The wounded man beheld the action of the speaker, and 
heard the discussion. He gasped out a prayer for life : — 

“ Spare me, Guy ! Save me, Wat, if you have a man’s heart 
in your bosom. Save me! spare me ! I would live ! I — oh, 
spare me!” 

And the dying man threw up his hands feebly, in order to 
avert the blow; but it was in vain. Munro would have inter¬ 
posed, but, this time, the murderer was too quick for him, if not 
too strong. With a sudden rush he flung his associate aside, 
stooped down, and smote — smote fatally. 

“ Kate ! — ah ! — 0 God, have mercy !” 


THE BLOODY DEED. 


287 


The wretched and unsuspecting victim fell back upon the 
earth with these last words — dead—sent to his dread account, 
with all his sins upon his head! And what a dream of simple 
happiness in two fond, feeble hearts, was thus cruelly and ter¬ 
ribly dispersed for ever! 


288 


GIJY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

WHAT FOLLOWED THE MURDER. 

There was a dreadful pause, after the commission of the deed, 
in which no word was spoken by either of the parties. The 
murderer, meanwhile, with the utmost composure wiped his 
bloody knife in the coat of the man whom he had slain. Bold¬ 
ly and coolly then, he broke the silence which was certainly a 
painful one to Munro if not to himself. 

“We shall hear no more of his insolence. I owed him a 
debt. It is paid. If fools will be in the way of danger, they 
must take the consequences.” 

The landlord only groaned. 

The murderer laughed. 

“ It is your luck,” he said, “ always to groan with devout 
feeling, when you have done the work of the devil! You may 
spare your groans, if they are designed for repentance. They 
are always too late !” 

“ It is a sad truth, though the devil said it.” 

“ Well, rouse up, and let’s be moving. So far, our ride has been 
for nothing. We must leave this carrion to the vultures. What 
next ] Will it be of any use to pursue this boy again to-night ? 
What say you ] We must pursue and silence him of course; 
but we have pushed the brutes already sufficiently to-night. 
They would be of little service to-night, in a longer chase.” 

The person addressed did not immediately reply, and when 
he spoke, did not answer to the speech of his companion. His 
reply, at length, was framed in obedience to the gloomy and 
remorseful course of his thought. 

“ It will he no wonder, Guy, if the whole country turn out 
upon us. You are too wanton in your doings. Wherefore 


WHAT FOLLOWED THE MURDER. 289 

when 1 told you of your error, did you strike the poor wretch 
again.” 

The landlord, it will be seen, spoke simply with reference to 
policy and expediency, and deserved as little credit for human¬ 
ity as the individual he rebuked. In this particular lay the 
difference between them. Both were equally ruffianly, but the 
one had less of passion, less of feeling, and more of profession 
in the matter. With the other, the trade of crime was adopted 
strictly in subservience to the dictates of ill-regulated desires 
and emotions, suffering defeat in their hope of indulgence, and 
stimulating to a morbid action which became a disease. The 
references of Munro were always addressed to the petty gains; 
and the miserly nature thus perpetually exhibiting itself, at 
the expense of all other ^motions, was, in fact, the true influ¬ 
ence which subjected him almost to the sole dictation of his ac¬ 
complice, in whom a somewhat lofty distaste for such a pecu¬ 
liarity had occasioned a manner and habit of mind, the supe¬ 
riority of which was readily felt by the other. Still, we must 
do the landlord the justice to say that he had no such passion 
for bloodshed as characterized his companion. 

“Why strike again!” was the response of Bivcrs. “You 
talk like a child. Would you have had him live to blab? 
Saw you not that he knew us both ? Are you so green as to 
think, if suffered to escape, his tongue or hands would have 
been idle? You should know better. But the fact is, he could 
not have lived. The first blow was fatal; and, if I had delib¬ 
erated for an instant, I should have followed the suggestions of 
your humanity — I should have withheld the second, which 
merely terminated his agony.” 

“ It was a rash and bloody deed, and I would we had made 
sure of your man before blindly rushing into these unnecessary 
risks. It is owing to your insane love of blood, that you so 
frequently blunder in your object ” 

“Your scruples and complainings, Wat, remind me of that 
farmyard philosopher, who always locked the door of his stable 
after the steed had been stolen. You have your sermon ready 
in time for the funeral, but not during the life for whose benefit 
you make it. But whose fault was it that we followed the 

13 


290 


GUY RIVERS. 


wrong game ? Did you not make certain of the fresh track at 
the fork, so that there was no doubting you?” 

“ I did—there was a fresh track, and our coming upon For¬ 
rester proves it. There may have been another on the other 
prong of the fork, and doubtless the youth we pursue has taken 
that; but you were in such an infernal hurry that I had scarce 
time to find out what I did.” 

“Well, you will preach no more on the subject. We have 
failed, and accounting for won’t mend the failure. As for this 
bull-headed fellow, he deserves his fate for his old insolence. 
He was for ever putting himself in my way, and may not com¬ 
plain that I have at last put him out of it. But come, we have 
no further need to remain here, though just as little to pursue 
further in the present condition of our horses.” 

“ What shall we do with the body ? we can not leave it here.” 

“Why not? — What should we do with it, I pray? The 
wolves may want a dinner to-morrow, and I would be charita¬ 
ble. Yet stay—where is the dirk which you found at the 
stable ? Give it me.” 

“ What would you do ?” 

“You shall see. Forrester’s horse is off—fairly frightened, 
and will take the route back to the old range. He will doubt¬ 
less go to old Allen’s clearing, and carry the first new s. There 
will be a search, and when they find the body, they will not 
overlook the weapon, which I shall place beside it. There 
will then be other pursuers than me; and if it bring the boy 
to the gallows, I shall not regret our mistake to night.” 

As he spoke, he took the dagger, the sheath of which he 
threw at some distance in advance upon the road, then smeared 
the blade with the blood of the murdered man, and thrust the 
weapon into his garments, near the wound. 

“ You are well taught in the profession, Guy, and, if you 
would let me, I would leave it off, if for no other reason than 
the very shame of being so much outdone in it. But we may 
as well strip him. If his gold is in his pouch, it will be a spoil 
worth the taking, for he has been melting and running for sev¬ 
eral days past at Murkey’s furnace.” 

Rivers turned away, and the feeling which his countenance ex¬ 
hibited might have been that of disdainful contempt as he replied. 


WHAT FOLLOWED THE MUliDER. 291 

“Take it, if you please — I am in no want of his money. 
My object was not his robbery.” 

The scorn was seemingly understood; for, without proceed¬ 
ing to do as he proposed, Munro retained his position for a few 
moments, appearing to busy himself with the bridle of his 
horse, having adjusted which he returned to his companion. 

“Well, are you ready for a start? We have a good piece 
to ride, and should be in motion. We have both of us much to 
do in the next three days, or rather nights; and need not hes¬ 
itate what to take hold of first. The court will sit on Monday, 
and if you are determined to stand and see it out — apian which 
I don’t altogether like — why, we must prepare to get rid of 
such witnesses as we may think likely to become troublesome.” 

“ That matter will be seen to. I have ordered Dillon to have 
ten men in readiness, if need be for so many, to carry off Pip¬ 
pin, and a few others, till the adjournment. It will be a dear 
jest to the lawyer, and one not less novel than terrifying to 
him, to miss a court under such circumstances. I take it, he 
has never been absent from a session for twenty years; for, if 
sick before, he is certain to get well in time for business, spite 
of his physician.” 

The grim smile which disfigured still more the visage of 
Rivers at the ludicrous association which the proposed abduction 
of the lawyer awakened in his mind, was reflected fully back 
from that of his companion, whose habit of face, however, in 
this respect, was more notorious for gravity than any other less 
stable expression. He carried out, in words, the fancied occur¬ 
rence ; described the lawyer as raving over his undocketed and 
unargued cases, and the numberless embryos lying composedly 
in his pigeonholes, awaiting, with praiseworthy patience, the 
moment when they should take upon them a local habitation 
and a name; while he, upon whom they so much depended, 
was fretting with unassuaged fury in the constraints of his 
prison, and the absence from that scene of his repeated triumphs 
which before had never been at a loss for his presence. 

“But come—let us mount,” said the landlord, who did not 
feel disposed to lose much time for a jest. “ There is more 
than this to be done yet in the village; and, I take it, you feel 
in no disposition to waste more time to-night. Let us be off 


292 


GUY RIVERS. 


“ So say I, but I go not back with you, Wat. I strike across 
the woods into the other road, where I have much to see to; 
besides going down the branch to Dixon’s Ford, and Wolfs 
Neck, where I must look up our men and have them ready. 
I shall not be in the village, therefore, until late to-morrow 
night — if then.” 

“What—you are for the crossroads, again,” said Munro. 
“ I tell you what, Guy, you must have done with that girl 
before Lucy shall be yours. It’s bad enough—bad enough 
that she should be compelled to look to you for love. It were 
a sad thing if the little she might expect to find were to be 
divided between two or more.” 

“Pshaw — you are growing Puritan because of the dark. I 
tell you I have done with her. I can not altogether forget what 
she was, nor what I have made her; and just at this time she 
is in need of my assistance. Good-night! 1 shall see Dillor. 
and the rest of them by morning, and prepare for the difficulty. 
My disguise shall be complete, and if you are wise you will see 
to your own. I would not think of flight, for much may be 
made out of the country, and I know of none better for our 
purposes. Good-night!” 

Thus saying, the outlaw struck into the forest, and Munro, 
lingering until he was fairly out of sight, proceeded to rifle the 
person of Forrester — an act which the disdainful manner and 
language of his companion had made him hitherto forbear. 
The speech of Rivers on this subject had been felt; and, taken 
in connection with the air of authority which the mental supe¬ 
riority of the latter had necessarily imparted to his address, 
there was much in it highly offensive to the less adventurous 
ruffian. A few moments sufficed to effect the lightening of the 
woodman’s purse of the earnings which had been so essential a 
feature in his dreams of cottage happiness; and while engaged 
in this transfer, the discontent of the landlord with his colleague 
in crime, occasionally broke out into words — 

“ He carries himself highly, indeed; and I must stand 
reproved whenever it pleases his humor. 'Well, I am in for it 
now, and there is no chance of my getting safely out of the 
scrape just at this moment; but the day will come, and, by G-—d! 


WHAT FOLLOWED THE MURDER. 298 

I will have a settlement that’ll go near draining his heart of all 
the bio )d in it.” 

As he spoke in bitterness he approached his horse, and fling¬ 
ing the bridle over his neck, was in a little while a good dis¬ 
tance on his w r ay from the scene of blood; over which Silence 
now folded her wings, brooding undisturbed, as if nothing had 
taken place beloAv; so little is the sympathy which the tran¬ 
sient and inanimate nature appears, at any time, to exhibit, 
with that to the enjoyment of which it yields the bloom and 
odor of leaf and flower, soft zephyrs and refreshing waters. 


204 


GUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE FATES FAVOR THE FUGITIVE. 

Le*i js now return to our young traveller, whose escape we 
have already narrated. 

Utterly unconscious of the melancholy circumstance which 
had diverted his enemies from the pursuit of himself, he had 
followed studiously the parting directions of the young maiden, 
to whose noble feeling and fearless courage he was indebted for 
his present safety; and taken the almost blind path which she 
had hastily described to him. On this route he had for some 
time gone, with a motion not extravagantly free, but sufficiently 
so, having the start, and with the several delays to which his 
pursuers had been subjected, to have escaped the danger— 
while the vigor of his steed lasted—even had they fallen on 
the proper route. He had proceeded in this way for several 
miles, when, at length, he came upon a place whence several 
roads diverged into opposite sections of the country. Ignorant 
of the localities, he reined in his horse, and deliberated with 
himself for a few moments as to the path he should pursue. 
While thus engaged, a broad glare of flame suddenly illumined 
the woods on his left hand, followed with the shrieks, equally 
sudden, seemingly of a woman. 

There was no hesitation in the action of the youth. With 
unscrupulous and fearless precipitation, he gave his horse the 
necessary direction, and with a smart application of the rowel, 
plunged down the narrow path toward the spot from whence 
the alarm had arisen. As he approached, the light grew more 
intense, and he at length discovered a little cottage-like dwel¬ 
ling, completely embowered in thick foliage, through the crevices 
of which the flame proceeded, revealing the cause of terror, and 
illuminating for some distance the dense woods around. The 


THE FATES FAVOR THE FUGITIVE. 


295 


shrieks still continued; and throwing himself from his horse, 
Ralph darted forward, and with a single and sudden application 
of his foot, struck the door from its hinges, and entered the 
dwelling just in time to save its inmates from the worst of all 
kinds of death. 

The apartment was in a light blaze—the drapery of a couch 
which stood in one corner partially consumed, and, at the first 
glance, the whole prospect afforded hut little hope of a success¬ 
ful struggle with the conflagration. There was no time to be 
lost, yet the scene was enough to have paralyzed the nerves of 
the most heroic action. 

On the couch thus circumstanced lay an elderly lady, seem¬ 
ingly in the very last stages of disease. She seemed only at in¬ 
tervals conscious of the fire. At her side, in a situation almost 
as helpless as her own, was the young female whose screams had 
first awakened the attention of the traveller. She lay moaning 
beside the couch, shrieking at intervals, and though in momen¬ 
tary danger from the flames, which continued to increase, taking 
no steps for their arrest. Her only efforts were taken to raise 
the old -woman from the couch, and to this, the strength of the 
young one was wholly unequal. Ralph went manfully to work, 
and had the satisfaction of finding success in his efforts. With 
a fearless hand he tore down the burning drapery which cur¬ 
tained the windows and couch ; and which, made of light cotton 
stuffs, presented a ready auxiliar to the progress of the destruc¬ 
tive element. Striking down the burning shutter with a single 
blow, he admitted the fresh air, without which suffocation must 
soon have followed, and throwing from the apartment such of 
the furniture as had been seized upon by the flames, he suc¬ 
ceeded in arresting their farther advance. 

All this was the work of a few moments. There had been no 
word of intercourse between the parties, and the youth now 
surveyed them with looks of curious inquiry, for the first time. 
The invalid, as we have said, was apparently struggling with the 
last stages of natural decay. Her companion was evidently 
youthful, in spite of those marks whbh even the unstudied eye 
might have discerned in her features, of a temper and a spirit 
subdued and put to rest by the world’s strife and trial, and by 
afflictions which are not often found to crowd and to make up 


29G 


GUY RIVERS. 


the history and being of the young. Their position was pecu¬ 
liarly insulated, and Ralph wondered much at the singularity 
of a scene to which his own experience could furnish no parallel. 
Here were two lone women—living on the borders of a savage 
nation, and forming the frontier of a class of whites little le6S 
savage, without any protection, and, to his mind, without any 
motive for making such thejr abiding-place. His wonder might 
possibly have taken the shape of inquiry, but that there was 
something of oppressive reserve and shrinking timidity in the a*./ 
of the young woman, who alone could have replied to his in¬ 
quiries. At this time an old female negro entered, now for the 
first time alarmed by the outcry, who assisted in removing such 
traces of the fire as r.iiil remained about the room. She seemed 
to occupy a neighboring outhouse, to which, having done what 
seemed absolute 1 / necessary, she immediately retired. 

Colleton, with a sentiment of the deepest commiseration, pro¬ 
ceeded to reinstate things as they might have been before the 
conflagration, and having done so, and having soothed, as far as 
he well might, the excited apprehensions of the young girl, who 
made her acknowledgments in a not unbecoming style, he ven¬ 
tured to ask a few questions as to the condition of the old lady 
and of herself; but, finding from the answers that the subject 
was not an agreeable one, and having no pretence for further 
delay, he prepared to depart. He inquired, however, his prop¬ 
er route to the Chestatee river, and thus obtained a solution of 
the difficulty which beset him in the choice of roads at the fork. 

While thus employed, however, and just at the conclusion of 
his labors, there came another personage upon the scene, to 
whom it is necessary that we should direct our attention. 

It will be remembered that Rivers and Munro, after the mur¬ 
der of Forrester, had separated — the latter on his return to the 
village—the other in a direction which seemed to occasion 
some little dissatisfaction in the mind of his companion. After 
thus separating, Rivers, to whom the whole country was fa¬ 
miliar, taking a shorter route across the forest, by which the 
sinuosities of the main road were generally avoided, entered, 
after the progress of a few miles, into the very path pursued by 
Colleton, and which, had it been chosen by his pursuers in the 
firs* instance, might have entirely changed the result of the pur- 


THE FATES FAVOR THE FUGITIVE. 


29T 


suit. In taking this course it was not the thought of the outlaw 
to overtake the individual whose blood he so much desired ; hut, 
with an object which will have its development as we continue, 
he came to the cottage at the very time when, having succeed¬ 
ed in overcoming the flames, Ralph was employed in a task al¬ 
most as difficult — that of reassuring the affrighted inmates, and 
soothing them against the apprehension of farther danger. 

With a caution which old custom had made almost natural in 
such cases, Rivers, as he approached the cross-roads, concealed 
his horse in the cover of the woods, advanced noiselessly, and 
with not a little surprise, to the cottage, whose externals had 
undergone no little alteration from the loss of the shutter, the 
blackened marks, visible enough, in the moonlight, around the 
window-frame, and the general look of confusion which hung 
about it. A second glance made out the steed of our traveller, 
which he approached and examined. The survey awakened 
all those emotions which operated upon his spirit when refer¬ 
ring to his successful rival; and, approaching the cottage with 
extreme caution, he took post for a while at one of the windows, 
the shutter of which, partially unclosed, enabled him to take in 
at a glance the entire apartment. 

He saw, at once, the occasion which had induced the pres¬ 
ence, in this situation, of his most hateful enemy; and the 
thoughts were strangely discordant which thronged and pos¬ 
sessed his bosom. At one moment he had drawn his pistol to 
his eye—his finger rested upon the trigger, and the doubt 
which interposed between the youth and eternity, though it 
sufficed for his safety then, was of the most slight and shadowy 
description. A second time did the mood of murder savagely 
possess his soul, and the weapon’s muzzle fell pointblank upon 
the devoted bosom of Ralph; when the slight figure of the 
young woman passing between, again arrested the design of 
the outlaw, who, with muttered curses, uncocking, returned the 
weapon to his belt. 

Whatever might have been the relationship between himself 
and these females, there was an evident reluctance on the part 
of Rivers to exhibit his ferocious hatred of the youth before 
those to whom he had just rendered a great and unquestioned 
service; and, though untroubled by any feeling of gratitude on 

13 * 


298 


GUY RIVERS. 


tlieir behalf, or on his own, he was yet unwilling, believing, as 
he did, that his victim was now perfectly secure, that they 
should undergo any further shock, at a moment too of such se¬ 
vere suffering and trial as must follow in the case of the young¬ 
er, from those fatal pangs which were destroying the other. 

Ralph now prepared to depart; and taking leave of the 
young womaiJ, who alone seemed conscious of his services, and 
warmly acknowledged them, he proceeded to the door. Rivers, 
who had watched his motions attentively, and heard the direc¬ 
tions given him by the girl for his progress, at the same moment 
left the window, and placed himself under the shelter of a huge 
tree, at a little distance on the path which liis enemy was direct¬ 
ed to pursue. Here he waited like the tiger, ready to take the 
fatal leap, and plunge his fangs into the bosom of his victim. 
Nor did he wait long. 

Ralph was soon upon his steed, and on the road; hut the 
Providence that watches over and protects the innocent was 
with him, and it happened, most fortunately, that just before he 
reached the point at which his enemy stood in watch, the bad¬ 
ness of the road had compelled those who travelled it to diverge 
aside for a few jpaces into a little by-patli, which, at a little dis¬ 
tance beyond, and when the bad places had been rounded, 
brought the traveller again into the proper path. Into this by¬ 
path, the horse of Colleton took his way; the rider neither saw the 
embarrassments of the common path, nor that his steed had turn¬ 
ed aside from them. It was simply providential that the instincts 
of the horse were more heedful than the eyes of the horseman. 

It was just a few paces ahead, and on the edge of a boggy 
hollow that Guy Rivers had planted himself in waiting. The 
tread of the young traveller’s steed, diverging from the route 
which he watched, taught the outlaw the change which it was 
required that he should also make in his position. 

“Curse him!”he muttered. “Shall there be always some¬ 
thing in the way of my revenge?” 

Such was his temper, that everything which baffled him in 
his object heightened his ferocity to a sort of madness. But 
this did not prevent his prompt exertion to retrieve the lost 
ground. The “ turn-out” did not continue fifty yards, before it 
again wound into the common road, and remembering this, the 


THE FATES FAVOR THE FUGITIVE. 29P 

outlaw hurried across the little copse which separated the two 
routes for a space. The slow gait at which Colleton now rode, 
unsuspicious of danger, enabled his enemy to gain the position 
which he sought, close crouching on the edge of the thicket, 
just where the roads again united. Here he waited—not 
many seconds. 

The pace of our traveller, we have said, was slow. We may 
add that his mood was also inattentive. He was not only un¬ 
apprehensive of present danger, but his thoughts were natural¬ 
ly yielded to the condition of the two poor women, in that lone¬ 
ly abode of forest, whom he had just rescued, in all probability, 
from a fearful death. Happy with the pleasant consciousness 
of a good action well performed, and with spirits naturally rising 
into animation, freed as they were from a late heavy sense of 
danger—he was as completely at the mercy of the outlaw who 
awaited him, pistol in hand, as if he lay, as his poor friend, 
Forrester, so recently had done, directly beneath his knife. 

And so thought Rivers, who heard the approaching footsteps, 
and now caught a glimpse of his approaching shadow. 

The outlaw deliberately lifted his pistol. It was already 
cocked. His form was sheltered by a huge tree, and as man and 
horse gradually drew nigh, the breathing of the assassin seemed 
almost suspended in his ferocious anxiety for blood. 

The dark shadow moved slowly along the path. The head 
of the horse is beside the outlaw. In a moment the rider will 
occupy the same spot—and then ! The finger of the outlaw is 
upon the trigger—the deadly aim is taken !—what arrests the 
deed? Ah! surely there is a Providence—a special arm to 
save—to interpose between the criminal and his victim—to 
stay the wilful hands of the murderer, when the deed seems al¬ 
ready done, as it has been already determined upon. 

Even in that moment, when but a touch is necessary to de¬ 
stroy the unconscious traveller—a sudden rush is heard above 
the robber. Great wings sweep away, with sudden clatter, and 
the dismal bootings of an owl, scared from his perch on a low 
shrub-tree, startles the cold-blooded murderer from his propri¬ 
ety. With the nervous excitement of his mind, and his whole 
nature keenly interested in the deed, to break suddenly the 
awful silence, the brooding hush of the forest, with unexpected 


800 


GUY RIVERS. 


sounds, and those so near, and so startling—for once the out¬ 
law ceased to he the master of his own powers! 

The noise of the bird scared the steed. He dashed headlong 
forward, and saved the life of his rider ! 

Yet Ralph Colleton never dreamed of his danger—never 
once conjectured how special was his obligations to the inter¬ 
posing hand of Providence ! And so, daily, with the best of us 
— and the least fortunate. How few of us ever dream of the 
narrow escapes we make, at moments when a breath might kill 
us, when the pressure of a “bare bodkin” is all that is necessary 
to send us to sudden judgment! 

And the outlaw was again defeated. He had not, perhaps, 
been scared. He had only been surprised—been confounded. 
In the first cry of the bird, the first rush of his wings, flapping 
through the trees, it seemed as if they had swept across his 
eyes. He lowered the pistol involuntarily — he forgot to pull 
the trigger, and when he recovered himself, steed and rider had 
gone beyond his reach. 

“ Is there a devil,” he involuntarily murmured, “ that stands 
between me and my victim ] am I to be baffled always 1 Is 
there, indeed, a God ?” 

He paused in stupor and vexation. He could hear the dis¬ 
tant tramp of the horse, sinking faintly out of hearing. 

“ That I, who have lived in the woods all my life, should 
have been startled by an owl, and at such a moment!” 

Cursing the youth’s good fortune, not less than his own weak¬ 
ness, the fierce disappointment of Guy Rivers was such that he 
fairly gnashed his teeth with vexation. At first, he thought to 
dash after his victim, but his own steed had been fastened near 
the cottage, several hundred yards distant, and he was winded 
too much for a further pursuit that night. 

Colleton was, meanwhile, a mile ahead, going forward swim¬ 
mingly, never once dreaming of danger. He was thus far safe. 
So frequently and completely had his enemy been baffled in the 
brief progress of a single night, that he was almost led to be¬ 
lieve—for, like most criminals, he was not without his super¬ 
stition— that his foe was under some special guardianship. 
With ill-concealed anger, and a stern impatience, he turned 
away from the spot in which he had been just foiled, and soon 
entered the dwelling, to which we propose also to return 


SUBDUED AGONIES. 


301 


CHAPTER XXV. 

SUBDUED AGONIES. 

The entrance of Guy Rivers awakened no emotion among 
the inmates of the dwelling; indeed, at the moment, it was 
almost unperceived. The young woman happened to be in 
close attendance upon her parent, for such the invalid was, and 
did not observe his approach, while he stood at some little dis¬ 
tance from the couch, surveying the scene. The old lady was 
endeavoring, though with a feebleness that grew more apparent 
with every breath, to articulate something, to which she seemed 
to attach much importance, in the ears of the kneeling girl, who, 
with breathless attention, seemed desirous of making it out, but 
in vain; and, signifying by her countenance the disappointment 
which she felt, the speaker, with something like anger, shook 
her skinny finger feebly in her face, and the broken and inco¬ 
herent words, with rapid effort but like success, endeavored to 
find their way through the half-closed aperture between her 
teeth. The tears fell fast and full from the eyes of the kneel¬ 
ing girl, who neither sobbed nor spoke, but, with continued and 
yet despairing attention, endeavored earnestly to catch the few 
words of one who was on the eve of departure, and the words 
of whom, at such a moment, almost invariably acquire a value 
never attached to them before: as the sounds of a harp, when 
the chords are breaking, are said to articulate a sweet sorrow, 
as if in mourning for their own fate. 

The outlaw, all this while, stood apart and in silence. Al¬ 
though perhaps but little impressed with the native solemnity 
of the scene before him, he was not so ignorant of what was 
due to humanity, and not so unfeeling in reference to the par¬ 
ties here interested, as to seek to disturb its progress or propri¬ 
ety with tone, look, or gesture, which might make either of 
them regret his presence. Becomlrg impatient, however, of a 


302 


GUY RIVERS. 


colloquy which, as he saw that it had not its use, and was only 
productive of mortification to one of the parties, he thought 
only prudent to terminate, he advanced toward them; and his 
tread, for the first time, warned them of his presence. 

With an effort which seemed supernatural, the dying woman 
raised herself with a sudden start in the bed, and her eyes 
glared upon him with a threatening horror, and her lips part¬ 
ing, disclosed the broken and decayed teeth beneath, ineffectu¬ 
ally gnashing, while her long, skinny fingers warned him away. 
All this time she appeared to speak, but the words were unar¬ 
ticulated, though, from the expression of every feature, it was 
evident that indignation and reproach made up the entire 
amount of eveiything she had to express. The outlaw was not 
easily influenced by anger so impotent as this; and, from his 
manner of receiving it, it appeared that he had been for some 
time accustomed to a reception of a like kind from the same 
person. He approached the young girl, who had now risen 
from her knees, and spoke to her in words of comparative kind¬ 
ness : — 

“Well, Ellen, you have had an alarm, but I am glad to see 
you have suffered no injury. How happened the fire V* 

The young woman explained the cause of the conflagration, 
and narrated in brief the assistance which had been received 
from the stranger. 

“ But I was so terrified, Guy,” she added, “ that I had not 
presence of mind enough to thank him.” 

“And what should be the value of your spoken thanks, Ellen ? 
The stranger, if he have sense, must feel that he has them, and 
the utterance of such things had better be let alone. But, how 
is the old lady now ? I see she loves me no better than for¬ 
merly.” 

“ She is sinking fast, Guy, and is now incapable of speech. 
Before you came, she seemed desirous of saying something to 
me, but she tried ii vain to speak, and now I scarcely think 
her conscious.” 

“ Believe it not, Ellen: she is conscious of all that is going 
on, though her voice may fail her. Her eye is even now fixed 
upon me, and with the old expression. She would tear me if 
she could.” 


SUBDUED AGONIES. 


303 


“Oil, think not thus of the dying, Guy — of her who lias 
never harmed, and would never harm you, if she had the power. 
And yet, Heaven knows, and we both know, she has had rea¬ 
son enough to hate, and, if she could, to destroy you. But she 
has no such feeling now.” 

“ You mistake, Ellen, or would keep the truth from me. You 
know she has always hated me; and, indeed, as you say, she 
has had cause enough to hate and destroy me. Had another 
done to me as I have done to her, I should not have slept till 
my hand was in his heart.” 

“ She forgives you all, Guy, I know she does, and God knows 
I forgive you — I, who, above all others, have most reason to 
curse you for ever. Think not that she can hate upon the 
brink of the grave. Her mind wanders, and no wonder that 
the wrongs of earth press upon her memory, her reason being 
gone. She knows not herself of the mood which her features 
express. Look not upon her, Guy, I pray you, or let me turn 
away my eyes.” 

“ Your spirit, Ellen, is more gentle and shrinking than hers. 
Had you felt like her, I verily belieVe that many a night, when 
I have been at rest within your arms, you would have driven a 
knife into my heart.” 

“ Horrible, Guy ! how can you imagine such a thing 1 Base 
and worthless as you have made me, I am too much in your 
power, I fear—I love you still too much; and, though like o 
poison or a firebrand you have clung to my bosom, I could not 
have felt for you a single thought of resentment. You say well 
when you call me shrinking. I am a creature of a thousand 
fears; I am all weakness and worthlessness.” 

“ Well, well—let us not talk further of this. When was the 
doctor here last ?” 

“ In the evening he came, and left some directions, but told 
us plainly what we had to expect. He said she could not sur¬ 
vive longer than the night; and she looks like it, for within the 
last few hours she has sunk surprisingly. But have you brought 
the medicine ?” 

“I have, and some drops which are said to stimulate and 
strengthen.” 

“ 1 fear they are now of little use, and may only serve to keen 


304 


GUY RIVERS. 


up life in misery. But they may enable her to speak, and I 
should like to hear what she seems so desirous to impart.” 

Ellen took the cordial, and hastily preparing a portion in a 
wine-glass, according to the directions, proceeded to administer 
it to the gasping patient; but, while the glass was at her lips, 
the last paroxysm of death came on, and with it something more 
of that consciousness now fleeting for ever. Dashing aside the 
nostrum with one hand, with the other she drew the shrinking 
and half-fainting girl to her side, and, pressing her down beside 
her, appeared to give utterance to that which, from the action, 
and the few and audible words she made out to articulate, would 
seem to have been a benediction. 

Rivers, seeing the motion, and remarking the almost super¬ 
natural strength with which the last spasms had endued her, 
would have taken the girl from her embrace; but his design 
was anticipated by the dying woman, whose eyes glared upon 
him with an expression rather demoniac than human, while her 
paralytic hand, shaking with ineffectual effort, waved him off. 
A broken word escaped her lips here and there, and — “ sin” — 
“forgiveness” — was all that reached the ears of her grandchild, 
when her head sank back upon the pillow, and she expired 
without a groan. 

A dead silence followed this event. The girl had no uttered 
anguish — she spoke not her sorrows aloud; yet there was that 
in the wobegone countenance, and the dumb grief, that left no 
doubt of the deep though suppressed and half-subdued agony 
of soul within. She seemed one to whom the worst of life had 
been long since familiar, and who would not find it difficult her¬ 
self to die. She had certainly outlived pride and hope, if not 
love; and if the latter feeling had its place in her bosom, as 
without doubt it had, then was it a hopeless lingerer, long after 
the sunshine and zephyr had gone which first awakened it into 
bloom and flower. She knelt beside the inanimate form of her 
old parent, shedding no tear, and uttering no sigh. Tears would 
have poorly expressed the wo which at that moment she felt; 
and the outlaw, growing impatient of the dumb spectacle, now 
ventured to approach and interrupt her. She rose, meekly and 
without reluctance, as he spoke; with a manner which said as 
plainly as words could have said — ‘Command, and I obev. 


SUBDUED AGONIES. 


305 


Bid me go, °ven now, at midnight, on a perilous journey, over 
and into foreign lands, and I go without murmur or repining/ 
She was a heart-stricken, a heart-broken, and abused woman— 
and yet she loved still, and loved her destroyer. 

“ Ellen,” said he, taking her hand, “ your mother was a Chris¬ 
tian— a strict worshipper — one who, for the last few years of 
her life, seldom put the Bible out of her hands; and yet sho 
cursed me in her very soul as she went out of the world.” 

“ Guy, Guy, speak not so, I pray you. Spare me this cruelty, 
and say not for the departed spirit wliat it surely never would 
have said of itself.” 

“ But it did so say, Ellen, and of this I am satisfied. Hear 
me, girl. I know something of mankind, and womankind too, 
and I am not often mistaken in the expression of human faces, 
and certainly was not mistaken in hers. When, in the last 
paroxysm, you knelt beside her with your head down upon her 
hand and in her grasp, and as I approached her, her eyes, which 
feebly threw up the film then rapidly closing over them, shot 
out a most angry glare of hatred and reproof; while her lips 
parted—I could see, though she could articulate no word— 
with involutions which indicated the curse that she could not 
speak.” 

" Think not so, I pray you. She had much cause to curse, 
and often would she have done so, but for my sake she did not. 
She would call me a poor fool, that so loved the one who had 
brought misery and shame to all of us; but her malediction was 
arrested, and she said it not. Oh, no! she forgave you—I 
know she did—heard you not the words which she uttered at 
the last ?” 

“Yes, yes—but no matter. We must now talk of other 
things, Ellen ; and first of all, you must know, then, I am about 
to be married. 

Had a bolt from the crossbow at that moment penetrated into 
her heart, the person he addressed could not have been more 
transfixed than at this speech. She started — an inquiring and 
tearful doubt rose into her eyes, as they settled piercingly upon 
his own; but the information they met with there needed no 
further word of assurance from his lips. He was a stern tyrant 
— one, however, who did not trifle. 


806 


GUY RIYERS. 


“ I feared as much, Guy - -1 have had thoughts which as 
good as told me this long b afore. The silent form before me 
has said to me, over and over again, you would never w r ed her 
whom you have dishonored. Oh, fool that I was ! — spite of 
her forebodings and my own, I thought—I still think, and oh, 
Guy, let me not think in vain—that there would be a time 
w r hen you would take away the reproach from my name and 
the sin from my soul, by making me your wife, as you have so 
often promised.” 

“ You have indeed thought like a child, Ellen, if you sup¬ 
pose that, situated as I am, I could ever marry simply because I 
loved.” 

“ And will you not love her whom you are now about to 
wed?” 

“Not as much as I have loved you—not half so much as I 
love you now—if it be that I have such a feeling at this mo¬ 
ment in my bosom. 

“ And wherefore then would you wed, Guy, with one whom 
you do not, whom you can not love? In what have I offended 
— have I ever reproached or looked unkindly on you, Guy, 
even when you came to me, stern and full of reproaches, chafed 
with all things and with everybody ?” 

“ There are motives, Ellen, governing my actions into which 
you must not inquire—” 

“ What, not inquire, when on these actions depend all my 
hope — all my life ! Now indeed you are the tyrant which my 
old mother said, and all people say, you are.” 

The girl for a moment forgot her submissiveness, and her 
words were tremulous, less with sorrow than the somewhat 
strange spirit which her wrongs had impressed upon her. But 
she soon felt the sinking of the momentary inspiration, and 
quickly sought to remove the angry scowl which she perceived 
coming over the brow of her companion. 

“Nay, nay—forgive me, Guy—let me not reproach—let 
me not accuse you. I have not done so before: I would not 
do so now. Do with me as you please; and yet, if you are bent 
to wed with another, and forget and overlook your wrongs to 
me, there is one kindness which would become your hands, and 
which 1 would joy to receive from them. Will you do for mo 


SUBDUED AGONIES. 


307 


this kindness, Guy ? Nay, now be not harsh, but say that you 
will do it.” 

She seized his hand appealingly as she spoke, and her moist 
but untearful eyes were fixed pleadingly upon liis own. The 
outlaw hesitated for a moment before he replied. 

“ I propose, Ellen, to do for you all that may be necessary — 
to provide you with additional comforts, and carry you to a 
place of additional security, where you shall live to yourself, 
and have good attendance.” 

“ This is kind — this is much, Guy; but not much more than 
you have been accustomed to do for me. That which I seek 
from you now is something more than this; promise me that it 
shall be as I say.” 

“ If it breaks not into my arrangements—if it makes me not 
go aside from my path, I will certainly do it, Ellen. Speak, 
therefore; what is it I can do for you ?” 

“ It will interfere with none of your arrangements, Guy, I 
am sure; it can not take you from your path, for you could not 
have provided for that of which you knew not. I have your 
pledge, therefore—have I not?” 

“ You have,” was the reply, while the manner of Rivers was 
tinctured with something like curiosity. 

“ That is kind—that is as you ought to be. Hear me now. 
then,” and her voice sunk into a whisper, as if she feared the 
utterance of her own words; “take your knife, Guy—pause 
not, do it quickly, lest I fear and tremble — strike it deep into 
the bosom of the poor Ellen, and lay her beside the cold parent, 
whose counsels she despised, and all of whose predictions are 
now come true. Strike—strike quickly, Guy Rivers; I have 
your promise—you can not recede; if you have honor, if you 
have truth, you must do as I ask. Give me death—give me 
peace.” 

“ Foolish girl, would you trifle with me—would you have me 
spurn and hate you ? Beware !” 

The outlaw well knew the yielding and sensitive material 
out of which his victim had been made. His stern rebuke wap 
well calculated to effect in her bosom that revulsion of feeling 
which he knew would follow any threat of a withdrawal, even 
of the -lingering and frail fibres of that affection, few and feeble 


GUY P.IYEKS. 


308 

as they were, which he might have once persuaded her to be¬ 
lieve had hound him to her. The consequence was immediate, 
and her subdued tone and resigned action evinced the now en¬ 
tire supremacy of her natural temperament. 

“ Oli, forgive me, Guy, I know not what I ask or what I do. 

I am so worn and weary, and my head is so heavy, that I think 
it were far better if I were in my grave with the cold frame 
whom we shall soon put there. Heed not what X say — I am 
sad and sick, and have not the spirit of reason, or a healthy 
will to direct me. Do with me as you will — I will obey you 
—go anywhere, and, worst of all, behold you wed another; ay, 
stand by, if you desire it, and look on the ceremony, and try to 
forget that you once promised me that I should be yours, and 
yours only.” 

“You speak more wisely, Ellen; and you will think more 
calmly upon it when the present grief of your grandmother’s 
death passes off.” 

“ Oh, that is no grief, now, Guy,” was the rather hasty reply. 
“ That is no grief now : should I regret that she has escaped 
these tidings — should I regret that she has ceased to feel trou¬ 
ble, and to see and shed tears — should I mourn, Guy, that she 
who loved me to the last, in spite of my follies and vices, has 
ceased now to mourn over them ? Oh, no ! this is no grief, now ; 
it was grief but a little while ago, but now you have made it 
matter of rejoicing.” 

“Think not of it, — speak no more in this strain, Ellen, lest 
you anger me.” 

“I will not — chide me not—I have no farther reproaches. 
Yet, Guy, is she, the lady you are about to wed—is she beauti¬ 
ful, is she young—has she long raven tresses, as I had once, 
when your fingers used to play in them V* and with a sickly 
smile, which had in it something of an old vanity, she unbound 
the string which confined her own hair, and let it roll down 
upon her back in thick and beautiful volumes, still black, glossy 
and delicately soft as silk. 

The outlaw was moved. For a moment his iron muscles re¬ 
laxed— a gentler expression overspread his countenance, and 
he took her in his arms. That single, half-reluctant embraco 
was a boon not much bestowed in the latter days of his victim. 


SUBDUED AGONIES. 


309 


mid it awakened a thousand tender recollections in her heart, 
and unsealed a warm spring of gushing waters. An infantile 
smile was in her eyes, while the tears were flowing down her 
cheeks. 

But, shrinking cr yielding, at least to any great extent, made 
up very little cf the character of the dark man on whom she 
depended; and the more than feminine weakness of the young 
girl who hung upon his bosom like a dying flower, received its 
rebuke, after a few moments of unwonted tenderness, when, 
coldly resuming his stern habit, he put her from his arms, and 
announced to her his intention of immediately taking his de¬ 
parture. 

“ What,” she asked, “ will you not stay with me through the 
night, and situated as I am V* 

“It is impossible; even now I am waited for, and should 
have been some hours on my way to an appointment which T 
must not break. It is not with me as with you ; I have obliga¬ 
tions to others who depend on me, and who might suffer injury 
were I to deceive them.” 

“ But this night, Guy — there is little of it left, and I am sure 
you will not be expected before the daylight. I feel a new 
terror when I think I shall be left by all, and here, too, alone 
with the dead.” 

“ You will not be alone, and if you were, Ellen, you have 
been thus lonely for many months past, and should be now ac¬ 
customed to it.” 

“ Why, so I should, for it has been a fearful and a weary time, 
and I went not to my bed one night without dreading that I 
should never behold another day.” 

“ Why, what had you to alarm you 1 you suffered no affright 
—no injury ? I had taken care that throughout the forest your 
cottage should be respected.” 

“ So I had your assurance, and when I thought, I believed it. 
I knew you had the power to do as you assured me you would, 
but still there were moments when our own desolation came 
across my mind; and what with my sorrows and my fears, I 
was sometimes persuaded, in my madness, to pray that I might 
be relieved of them, were it even by the hands of death.” 

“ You were ever thus foolish, Ellen, and you have as little 


310 


GUY RIVERS. 


reason now to apprehend as then. Besides, it is only tor the 
one night, and in the morning I shall send those to you who 
will attend to your own removal to another spot, and to the in¬ 
terment of the body.” 

“ And where am I to go ?” 

“What matters it where, Ellen? You have my assurance 
that it shall be a place of security and good attendance to which 
I shall send you.” 

“ True, what matters it where I go—whether among the sav 
age or the civilized ? They are to me all alike, since I may not 
look them in the face, or take them by the hand, or hold com¬ 
munion with them, either at the house of God or at the family 
fireside.” 

The gloomy despondence of her spirit was uppermost; and 
she went on, in a series of bitter musings, denouncing herself 
as an outcast, a worthless something, and, in the language of 
the sacred text, calling on the rocks and mountains to cover 
her. The outlaw, who had none of those fine feelings which 
permitted of even momentary sympathy with that desolation of 
heart, the sublime agonies of which are so well calculated to en¬ 
list and awaken it, cut short the strain of sorrow and complaint 
by a fierce exclamation, which seemed to stun every sense of 
her spirit. 

“ Will you never have done ?” he demanded. “ Am I for 
ever to listen to this weakness—this unavailing reproach of 
yourself and everything around you ? Do I not know that all 
your complaints and reproaches, though you address them in so 
many words to yourself, are intended only for my use and ear ? 
Can I not see through the poor hypocrisy of such a lamenta¬ 
tion ? Know I not that when you curse and deplore the sin, 
you only withhold the malediction from him who tempted and 
partook of it, in the hope that his own spirit will apply it all to 
himself? Away, girl; I thought you had a nobler spirit—I 
thought you felt the love that I now find existed only in ex¬ 
pression.” 

“I do feel that love; I would, Guy that I felt it not— 
that it did exist only in my words. I were then far happier 
than I am now, since stern look or language from you would 
then utterly fail to vex'and wound as it does new. I can not 


SUBDUED AGONIES. 


311 


bear your reproaches; look not thus upon me, and ^eak not m 
those harsh sentences — not now — not now, at least, and in this 
melancholy presence.” 

Her looks turned upon the dead body of her parent as she 
spoke, and with convulsive effort she rushed toward and clasped 
it round. She threw herself beside the corpse and remained 
inanimate, while the outlaw, leaving the house for an instant, 
called the negro servant and commanded her attendance. He 
now approached the girl, and taking up her hand, which lay 
supine upon the bosom of the dead body, would have soothed 
her grief ; but though she did not repulse, she yet did not re¬ 
gard him. 

“Be calm, Ellen,” he said, “recover and be firm. In the 
morning you shall have early and good attention, and with this 
object, in part, am I disposed to hurry now. Think not, girl, 
that I forget you. Whatever may be my fortune, I shall al¬ 
ways have an eye to yours. I leave you now, but shall see you 
before long, when I shall settle you permanently and comforta¬ 
bly. Farewell.” 

He left her in seeming unconsciousness of the words whis¬ 
pered in her ears, yet she heard them all, and duly estimated 
their value. To her, to whom he had once pledged himself en¬ 
tirely, the cold boon of his attention and sometime care was 
painfully mortifying. She exhibited nothing, however, beyond 
what we have already seen, of the effect of this consolation upon 
her heart. There is a period in human emotions, when feeling 
itself becomes imperceptible—when the heart (as it were) re¬ 
ceives the coup de grace , and days, and months, and years, be¬ 
fore the body expires, shows nothing of the fire which is con¬ 
suming it. 

We would not have it understood to be altogether the case 
with the young destitute before us; but, at least, if she still 
continued to feel these still-occurring influences, there was little 
or no outward indication of their power upon the hidden spirit. 
She said nothing to him on his departure, but with a half-wan¬ 
dering sense, that may perhaps have described something of the 
ruling passion of an earlier day, she rose shortly after he had 
left the house, and placing herself before the small mirror which 
surmounted the toilet in the apartment, rearranged with studi- 


312 


GUY RIVERS. 


ous care, and with an eye to its most attractive appearance, the 
long and flowing tresses of that hair, which, as we have already 
remarked, was of the most silky and raven-like description 
Every ringlet was adjusted to its place, as if nothing of sorrow 
was about her — none of the badges and evidences of death and 
decay in her thought. She next proceeded to the readjustment 
of the dress she wore, taking care that a string of pearl, proba¬ 
bly the gift of her now indifferent lover, should leave its place 
in the little cabinet, where, with other trinkets of the kind, it 
had been locked up carefully for a long season, and once more 
adorned with it the neck which it failed utterly to surpass in 
delicacy or in whiteness. Having done this, she again took 
her place on the couch, along with the corpse; and with a 
manner which did not appear to indicate a doubt of the still 
lingering spirit, she raised the lifeless head, with the gentlest 
effort placing her arm beneath, then laid her own quietly on 
the pillow beside it. 


THE CAMP. 


813 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE CAMP. 

Ignorant, as we have already said, of his late most provi¬ 
dential escape from the weapon of his implacable enemy, Ralph 
Colleton was borne forward by his affrighted steed with a de¬ 
gree of rapidity which entirely prevented his rider from re¬ 
marking any of the objects around him, or, indeed, as the moon 
began to wane amid a clustering body of clouds, of detenuining 
positively whether he were still in the road or not. The trace 
(as public roads are called in that region) had been rudely cut 
out by some of the earlier travellers through the Indian coun¬ 
try, merely traced out — and hence, perhaps, the term—by a 
blaze , or white spot, made upon the trees by hewing from them 
the bark; which badge, repeated in succession upon those grow¬ 
ing immediately upon the line chosen for the destined road, in¬ 
dicated its route to the wayfarer. It had never been much 
travelled, and from the free use at the present time of other and 
more direct courses, it was left almost totally unemployed, save 
by those living immediately in its neighborhood. It had, there¬ 
fore, become, at the time of which we speak, what, in backwood 
phrase, is known as a blind-path 

Such being the case, it is not dirficult to imagine that, when 
able to restrain his horse, Ralph, as he feared, found himself 
entirely out of its guidance—wandering without direction 
among the old trees of the forest. Still, as for the night, now 
nearly over, he could have no distinct point in view, and saw 
just as little reason to go back as forward, he gave himself but 
little time for scruple or hesitation. Resolutely, though with a 
cautious motion, he pricked his steed forward through the 
woods, accommodating his philosophy, as well as he could, to 


314 


GUY RIVERS. 


the various interruptions which the future, as if to rival the 
past, seemed to have treasured up in store for him. 

He had not proceeded far in this manner when he caught the 
dim rays of a distant fire, flickering and ascending among the 
trees to the left of the direction he was taking. The blaze had 
something in it excessively cheering, and, changing his course, 
he went forward under its guidance. In this effort, he stum¬ 
bled upon something like a path, which, pursuing, brought him 
at length to a small and turbid creek, into which he plunged 
fearlessly, and soon found himself in swimming water. The 
ford had been little used, and the banks were steep, so that he 
got out with difficulty upon the opposite side. Having done so, 
his eye was enabled to take a full view of the friendly fire which 
had just attracted his regard, and which he soon made out to 
proceed from the encampment of a wagoner, such as may be 
seen every day, or every night, in the wild woods of the south¬ 
ern country. 

He was emigrating, with all his goods and gods, to that won¬ 
derfully winning region, in the estimation of this people, the 
valley of the Mississippi. The emigrant was a stout, burly, 
bluff old fellow, with full round cheeks, a quick, twinkling eye, 
and limbs rather Herculean than human. lie might have been 
fifty-five years or so; and his two sons, one of them a man 
grown, the other a tall and goodly youth of eighteen, promised 
well to b# just such vigorous and healthy-looking personages 
as their father. The old woman, by whom we mean — in the 
manner of speech common to the same class and region — to in¬ 
dicate the spouse of the wayfarer, and mother of the two youths, 
was busied about the fire, boiling a pot of coffee, and preparing 
the family repast for the night. A somewhat late hour for sup¬ 
per and such employment, thought our wanderer; but the diffi¬ 
culty soon explained itself in the condition of their wagon, and 
the conversation which ensued among the travellers. There 
was yet another personage in the assembly, who must be left to 
introduce himself to the reader. 

The force of the traveller—for such is the term by which the 
number of his slaves are understood — was small, consisting of 
some six workers, and three or four little negro children asleep 
under the wagon. The workers were occupied at. a little dis 


THE CAMP. 


31£ 


tance, in replacing boxes, beds, and some household trumpery, 
which had been taken out of the wagon, to enable them to effect 
its release from the slough in which it had cast one of its wheels, 
and broken its axle, and the restoration of which had made their 
supper so late in the night. The heavier difficulties of their 
labor had been got over, and with limbs warmed and chafed by 
the extra exercise they had undergone, the whites had thrown 
themselves under a tree, at a little distance from the fire at 
which the supper was in preparation, while a few pine torches, 
thrown together, gave them sufficient light to read and remark 
the several countenances of their group. 

“Well, by dogs, we’ve had a tough ’bout of it, boys; and, 
liark’ye, strannger, gi’ us your hand. I don’t know what we 
should have done without you, for I never seed man handle a 
little poleaxe as you did that same affair of your’n. You must 
have spent, I reckon, a pretty smart time at the use of it, now, 
didn’t ye ?” 

To this speech of the farmer, a ready reply was given by the 
stranger, in the identical voice and language of our old acquaint¬ 
ance, the pedler, Jared Bunce, of whom, and of whose stock in 
trade, the reader will probably have some recollection. 

“ Well, now, I guess, friend, you an’t far wide of your reck¬ 
oning. I’ve been a matter of some fifteen or twenty years 
knocking about, off and on, in one way or another, with this 
same instrument, and pretty’s the service now, I tell ye, that 
it’s done me in that bit of time.” 

“No doubt, no doubt; but what’s your trade, if I may be so 
bold, that made you larn the use of it so nicely ?” 

“ Oh, what—my trade ? Why, to say the truth, I never was 
brought up to any trade in particular, but I am a pretty slick 
hand, now, I tell you, at all of them. I’ve been in my time a 
little of a farmer, a little of a merchant, a little of a sailor, and, 
somehow or other, a little of everything, and all sort of things. 
My father was jest like myself, and swore, before I was born, 
that I should be born jest like him — and so I was. Never 
were two black peas more alike. He was a ’cute old fellow, 
and swore he’d make me so too — and so he did. You know 
how he did that? — now, I’ll go a York shilling against a Lou¬ 
isiana bit, that you can’t tell to save you.” 


316 


GUY RIVERS. 


‘Why, no, I can’t—let’s hear,” was the response of the 
wagoner, somewhat astounded by the volubility of his new ac¬ 
quaintance. 

“Well, then, I’ll tell you. He sent me away, to make mv 
fortin, and git my edication, ’mongst them who was ’cute them¬ 
selves, and maybe that an’t the best school for laming a simple 
boy ever went to. It was sharp edge agin sharp edge. It was 
the very making of me, so far as I was made.” 

“ Well, now, that is a smart way, I should reckon, to get one’s 
edication. And in this way I suppose you larned how to chop 
with your little poleaxe. Dogs ! but you’ve made me as smart 
a looking axle as I ever tacked to my team.” 

“ I tell you, friend, there’s nothing like sich an edication. It 
does everything for a man, and he larns to make everything 
out of nothing. I could make my bread where these same In¬ 
dians wouldn’t find the skin of a hoe-cake; and in these woods, 
or in the middle of the sea, t’ant anything for me to say I can 
always fish up some notion that will sell in the market.” 

“Well, now, that’s wonderful, strannger, and I should like to 
see how you would do it.” 

“ You can’t do nothing, no how, friend, unless you begin at 
the beginning. You’ll have to begin when you’re jest a mere 
boy, and set about getting your edication as I got mine. There’s 
no two ways about it. It won’t come to you; you must go to 
it. When you’re put out into the wide world, and have no com¬ 
pany and no acquaintance, why, what are you to do ? Suppose, 
now, when your wagon mired down, I had not come to your 
help, and cut out your wood, and put in the spoke, wouldn’t 
you have had to do it yourself?” 

“ Yes — to he sure ; but then I couldn’t have done it in a day. 
I an’t handy at these things.” 

“ Well, that was jest the way with me when I was a hoy. I 
had nobody to help me out of the mud—nobody to splice my 
spokes, or assist me any how, and so I larned to do it myself. 
And now, would you think it, I’m sometimes glad of a little 
turn-over, or an accident, jest that I may keep my hand in and 
not forget to be able to help myself or my neighbors.” 

“Well, you’re a cur’ous person, and I’d like to hear some¬ 
thing more about you. But it’s high time we should wet our 


THE CAMP. 


317 


whistles, and it’s but dry talking without something to wash a 
clear way for the slack. So, boys, be up, and fish up the jemmi- 
john — I hope it hain’t been thumped to bits in the rut. If it 
has, I shall be in a tearing passion.” 

“ Well, now, that won’t be reasonable, seeing that it’s no use, 
and jest wasting good breath that might bring a fair price in 
the market.” 

“ What, not get in a passion if all the whiskey’s gone ? That 
won’t do, strannger, and though you have helped me out of the 
ditch, by dogs, no man shall prevent me from getting in a pas¬ 
sion if I choose it.” 

“Oh, to be sure, friend—you an’t up to my idee. I didn’t 
know that it was for the good it did you that you got in a pas¬ 
sion. I am clear that when a man feels himself better from a 
passion, he oughtn’t to be shy in getting into it. Though that 
w asn’t a part of my edication, yet I guess, if such a thing would 
make me feel more comfortable, I’d get in a passion fifty times 
a day.” 

“ Well, now, strannger, you talk like a man of sense. ’Drot 
the man, says I, who hain’t the courage to get in a passion ! 
None but a miserable, shadow-skinning Yankee would refuse to 
get in a passion when his jug of whiskey was left in the road !” 

“A-liem—” coughed the dealer in small wares—the speech 
of the old wagoner grating harshly upon his senses; for if the 
Yankee be proud of anything, it is of his country — its enter¬ 
prise, its institutions; and of these, perhaps, he lias more true 
and unqualified reason to be pleased and proud than any other 
one people on the face of the globe. He did not relish well the 
sitting quietly under the harsh censure of his companion, who 
seemed to regard the existence of a genuine emotion among the 
people dowm east as a manifest absurdity; and was thinking to 
come out with a defence, in detail, of the pretensions of New 
England, when, prudence having first taken a survey of the 
huge limbs of the wagoner, and calling to mind the fierce pre¬ 
judices of the uneducated southrons generally against all his 
tribe, suggested the convenient propriety of an evasive reply. 

“ A-hem — ” repeated the Yankee, the argumentum ad homi- 
nem still prominent in his eyes — “well, now, I take it, friend, 
there’s no love to snare for tic people you speak of down in 


318 


GUY RIVERS. 


tliesc parts. They don't seem to smell at all pleasant in this 
country.” 

“No, I guess not, strannger, as how should they—a mean, 
tricky, catchpenny, skulking set—that makes money out of 
everybody, and liain’t the spirit to spend it! I do hate them, 
now, worse than a polecat!” 

“ Well, now, friend, that’s strange. If you were to travel for 
a spell, down about Boston or Salem in Massachusetts, or at 
Meriden in Connecticut, you’d hear tell of the Yankees quite 
different. If you believe what the people say thereabouts, you’d 
think there was no sich people on the face of the airth.” 

“That’s jist because they don’t know anything about them; 
and it’s not because they can’t know them neither, for a Yankee 
is a varmint you can nose anywhere. It must be that none ever 
travels in those parts—selling their tin-kettles, and their wooden 
clocks, and all their notions.” 

“ Oh, yes, they do. They make ’em in those parts. I know 
it by this same reason, that I bought a lot myself from a house 
in Connecticut, a town called Meriden, where they make almost 
nothing else but clocks—where they make ’em by steam, and 
horse-power, and machinery, and will turn you out a hundred 
or two to a minute.” 

The pedler had somewhat “ overleaped his shoulders,” as 
they phrase it in the West, when his companion drew himself 
back over the blazing embers, with a look of ill-concealed aver¬ 
sion, exclaiming, as he did so — 

“Why, you ain’t a Yankee, air you?” 

The pedler was a special pleader in one sense of the word, 
and knew the value of a technical distinction as well as his 
friend, Lawyer Pippin. His reply was prompt and profes¬ 
sional : — 

“Why, no, I ain’t a Yankee according to your idee. It’s 
true, I was born among them; but that, you know, don’t make 
a man one on them V* 

“ No, to be sure not. Every man that’s a freeman has a right 
to choose what country he shall belong to. My dad was born 
in Ireland, yet he always counted himself a full-blooded Amer¬ 
ican.” 

The old man found a parallel in his father’s nativity, which 


THE CAMP. 


319 


satisfied liimself of the legitimacy of the ground taken by the 
pedler, and helped the latter out of his difficulty. 

“ But here’s the whiskey standing by us all the time, waiting 
patiently to be drunk. Here, Nick Snell, boy, take your hands 
out of your breeches-pocket, and run down with the calabash to 
the branch. The water is pretty good thar, I reckon; and, 
strannger, after we’ve taken a sup, we’ll eat a bite, and then lie 
down. It’s high time, I reckon, that we do so.” 

It was in his progress to the branch that Ralph Colleton came 
upon this member of the family. 

Nick Snell was no genius, and did not readily reply to the pas¬ 
sing inquiry which was put to him by the youth, who advanced 
upon the main party while the dialogue between the pedler and 
the wagoner was in full gust. They started, as if by common 
consent, to their feet, as his horse’s tread smote upon their ears; 
but, satisfied with the appearance of a single man, and witnes¬ 
sing the jaded condition of his steed, they were content to in¬ 
vite him to partake with them of the rude cheer which the 
good-woman was now busied in setting before him. 

The hoe-cakes and bacon were smoking finely, and the fa¬ 
tigue of the youth engaged his senses, with no unwillingness on 
their part, to detect a most savory attraction in the assault which 
they made upon his sight and nostrils alike. He waited not 
for a second invitation, but in a few moments—having first 
stripped his horse, and put the saddle, by direction of the emi¬ 
grant, into his wagon—he threw himself beside them upon the 
ground, and joined readily and heartily in the consumption of 
the goodly edibles which were spread out before them. 

They had not been long at this game, when a couple of fine 
watch-dogs which were in the camp, guarding the baggage, gave 
the alarm, and the whole party was on the alert, with sharp 
eye and cocked rifle. They commenced a survey, and at some 
distance could hear the tread of horsemen, seemingly on the 
approach. The banditti, of which we have already spoken, 
were well known to the emigrant, and he had already to com¬ 
plain of divers injuries at their hands. It is not, therefore, 
matter of surprise, that he should place his sentinels, and pre¬ 
pare even for the most audacious attack. 

He had scarcely made this disposition of his forces, which 


820 


GUY RIVERS. 


exhibited them to the best advantage, when the strangers made 
their appearance. They rode cautiously around, without ap¬ 
proaching the defences sufficiently nigh to occasion strife, but 
evidently having for their object originally an attack upon the 
wayfarer. At length, one of the party, which consisted of six 
persons, now came forward, and, with a friendly tone of voice, 
bade them good-evening in a manner which seemed to indicate 
a desire to be upon a footing of the most amiable sort with them. 
The old man answered dryly, with some show of sarcastic in¬ 
difference in his speech — 

“Ay, good evening enough, if the moon had not gone down, 
and if the stars were out, that we might pick out the honest 
men from the rogues.” 

“ What, are there rogues in these parts, then, old gentleman V* 
asked the new-comer. 

“ Why do you ask me V was the sturdy reply. “ You ought 
to be able to say, without going farther than your own pockets.” 

“ Why, you are tough to-night, my old buck,” was the some¬ 
what crabbed speech of the visiter. 

“You’ll find me troublesome, too, Mr. Nightwalker: so take 
good counsel, and be off while you’ve whole bones, or I’ll tum¬ 
ble you now in half a minute from your crittur, and give you 
a sharp supper of pine-knots.” 

“ Well, that wouldn’t be altogether kind on your part, old fel¬ 
low, and I mightn’t be willing to let you; but, as you seem not 
disposed to be civil, I suppose the best thing I can do is to 
be off.” 

“Ay, ay, be off. You get nothing out of us; and we’ve no 
shot that we want to throw away. Leave you alone, and Jack 
Ketch will save us shot.” 

“Ha, ha!” exclaimed the outlier, in concert, and from the 
deeper emphasis which he gave it, in chorus to the laughter 
which followed, among the party, the dry expression of the old 
man’s humor — 

“Ha, ha! old boy—you have the swing of it to-night,” con¬ 
tinued the visiter, as he rode off to his companions; “ but, if you 
don’t mind, we shall smoke you before you get into Alabam i” 

The robber rejoined his companions, and a sort of council for 
deliberation was determined upon among them. 


THE CAMP. 


321 


“ How now, Lambert! you have been at dead fault,” was his 
sudden address, as he returned, to one of the party. “ You as¬ 
sured me that old Snell and his two sons were the whole force 
that he carried, while I find two stout, able-bodied men besides, 
all well armed, and ready for the attack. The old woman, too, 
standing with the gridiron in her fists, is equal of herself to any 
two men, hand to hand.” 

Lambert, a short, sly, dogged little personage, endeavored to 
account for the error, if such it was — “but he was sure, that at 
starting, there were but three—they must have have had com¬ 
pany join them since. Did the lieutenant make out the ap¬ 
pearance of the others ?” 

“ I did,” said the officer in command, “ and, to say truth, they 
do not seem to be of the old fellow’s party. They must have 
come upon him since the night. But how came you, Lambert, 
to neglect sawing the axle? You had time enough when it 
stood in the farmyard last night, and you were about it a full 
hour. The wagon stands as stoutly on its all-fours as the first 
day it was built.” 

“ I did that, sir, and did it, I thought, to the very mark. I 
calculated to leave enough solid to bear them to the night, when 
in our circuit we should come among them just in time to finish 
the business. The wood is stronger, perhaps, than I took it to 
be, but it won’t hold out longer than to-morrow, I’m certain, 
when, if we watch, we can take our way with them.” 

“ Well, I hope so, and we must watch them, for it won’t do 
to let the old fellow escape. He has, I know, a matter of three 
or four hundred hard dollars in his possession, to buy lands in 
Mississippi, and it’s a pity to let so much good money go out of 
the state.” 

“ But why may we not set upon them now ?” inquired one of 
the youngest of the party. 

“For a very good reason, Briggs—they are armed, ready, 
and nearly equal in number to ourselves; and though I doubt 
not we should be able to ride over them, yet I am not willing 
to leave one or more of us behind. Besides, if we keep the 
look-out to-morrow, as we shall, we can settle the business 
without any such risk.” 

This being the determination, the robbers, thus disappointed 

14 # 


322 


GUY RIVERS. 


of their game, were nevertheless in better humor than might 
have been well expected; but such men are philosophers, and 
their very recklessness of human life is in some respects the 
result of a due estimate of its vicissitudes. They rode on their 
way laughing at the sturdy bluntness of the old wagoner, which 
their leader, of whom we have already heard under the name 
of Dillon, related to them at large. With a whoop and halloo, 
they cheered the travellers as they rode by, but at some dis¬ 
tance from, the encampment. The tenants of the encampment, 
thus strangely but fortunately thrown together, having first 
seen that everything was quiet, took their severally assigned 
places, and laid themselves down for repose. The pedler con¬ 
tenting himself with guessing that “them 'ere chaps did not 
make no great deal by that speculation.” 



THE OUTLAWS. 


323 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE OUTLAWS. 

It was in the wildest and least-trodden recesses of the rock 
and forest, that the band of outlaws, of which Rivers was the 
great head and leader, had fixed their place of abode and as¬ 
semblage. A natural cavity, formed by the juxtaposition of 
two huge rocks, overhung by a third, with some few artificial 
additions, formed for them a cavern, in which — so admirably 
was it overgrown by the surrounding forest, and so finely sit¬ 
uated among hills and abrupt ridges yielding few inducements 
for travel—they found the most perfect security. 

It is true such a shelter could not long have availed them as 
such, were the adjacent country in the possession of a civilized 
people; but the near neighborhood of the Cherokees, by keep¬ 
ing back civilization, was, perhaps, quite as much as the position 
they had chosen, its protection from the scrutiny of many, who 
had already, prompted by their excesses, endeavored, on more 
than one occasion, to find them out. The place was distant 
from the village of Chestatee about ten miles, or perhaps more. 
No highway — no thoroughfare or public road passed in its 
neighborhood, and it had been the policy of the outlaws to 
avoid the use of any vehicle, the traces of which might be fol¬ 
lowed. There was, besides, but little necessity for its em¬ 
ployment. The place of counsel and assemblage was not ne¬ 
cessarily their place of abode, and the several members of the 
band found it more profitable to reside, or keep stations, in the 
adjacent hamlets and stands (for by this latter name in those 
regions, the nightly stopping-places of wayfarers are commonly 
designated) where, in most cases, they put on the appearance, 
and in many respects bore the reputation, of staid and sober 
working men. 


GUV RIVERS. 


824 

Tills arrangement was perhaps the very best for the pref¬ 
atory life they led, as it afforded opportunities for information 
which otherwise must have been lost to them. In this way 
they heard of this or that traveller—his destination — the ob¬ 
jects he had in view, and the wealth he carried about with 
him. In one of these situations the knowledge of old Snell’s 
journey, and the amount of wealt-h in his possession, had been 
acquired; and in the person of the worthy stable-boy who 
brought corn to the old fellow’s horses the night before, and 
whom he rewarded with a thrip (the smallest silver coin known 
in the southern currency, the five-cent issue excepted) we might, 
without spectacles, recognise the active fugleman of the outlaws, 
who sawed half through his axle, cleaned his wheels of all their 
grease, and then attempted to rob him the very night after. 

Though thus scattered about, it was not a matte 
to call the outlaws together upon an emergency, 
of the most trustworthy among them had only to 
over the road, and through the hamlets in whic 
harbored within the circuit of ten or twenty miles, 
kept usually with rigid punctuality to their sev< 
they were soon apprized, and off at the first signal, 
in the ear of the hostler who brought out your 1 
drover who put up the cattle, was enough; and tli 
a colt from pasture, or the missing of a stray young ms mu nom 
the flock, furnished a sufficient reason to the proprietor for the oc¬ 
casional absence of Tom, Dick, or Harry : who, in the mean¬ 
while, was, most probably, crying “ stand” to a true man, or cut¬ 
ting a trunk from a sulkey, or, in mere wantonness, shooting 
down the traveller who had perhaps given him a long chase, yet 
yielded nothing by way of compensation for the labor. 

Dillon, or, to speak more to the card, Lieutenant Dillon, ar¬ 
rived at the place of assemblage just as the day was breaking 
He was a leader of considerable influence among the outlaws, 
and, next to Rivers, was most popular. Indeed, in certain re¬ 
spects, he was far more popular; for, though perhaps not so 
adroit in his profession, nor so well fitted for its command, he 
was possessed of many of those qualities which are apt to be 
taking with “ the fierce democratic!” He was a prince of hail 
fellows—was thoroughly versed in low jest and scurvy anee- 


THE OUTLAWS. 


825 


dote — could play at pushpins, and drink at every point in the 
game; and, strange to say, though always drinking, was never 
drunk. Nor, though thus accomplished, and thus prone to these 
accomplishments, did he ever neglect those duties which he as¬ 
sumed to perform. No indulgence led him away from his post, 
and, on the other hand, no post compelled or constrained him 
into gravity. He was a careless, reckless blade, indifferent 
alike, it would seem, to sun and storm — and making of life a 
circle, that would not inaptly have illustrated the favorite text 
of Sardanapalus. 

He arrived at the cave, as we have said just as the day was 
breaking. A shrill whistle along the ridges of wood and rock 
as he passed them, denoted the various stations of the sentinels, 
as studiously strewed along the paths by which their place of 
refuge might be assailed, as if they were already beleaguered 
by an assailing army. Without pausing to listen to the various 
speeches and inquiries which assailed his ears upon his arrival 
he advanced to the cavern, and was told that the captain had 
been for some time anxiously awaiting his arrival — that he 
had morosely kept the inner recess of the cave, and since his 
return, which had not been until late in the night, had been 
seen but two or three times, and then but for a moment, when 
he had come forth to make inquiries for himself. 

Leaving his men differently disposed, Dillon at once pene¬ 
trated into the small apartment in which his leader was lodged, 
assured of the propriety of the intrusion, from what had just 
been told him. 

The recess, which was separated from the outer hall by a 
curtain of thick coarse stuff, falling to the floor from a beam, 
the apertures for the reception of which had been chiselled in 
the rock, was dimly illuminated by a single lamp, hanging from 
a chain, which was in turn fastened to a pole that stretched 
directly across the apartment. A small table in the centre of 
the room, covered with a piece of cotton cloth, a few chairs, a 
broken mirror, and on a shelf that stood trimly in the corner, a 
few glasses and decanters, completed the furniture of the 
apartment. 

On the table at which the outlaw sat, lay his pistols — a huge 
and unwieldy, but well-made p^ir. A short sword, a dirk, and 


326 


GUY RIVERS. 


one or two other weapons of similar description, contemplated 
only for hand-to-hand purposes, lay along with them; and the 
better to complete the picture, now already something outre , a 
decanter of brandy and tumblers were contiguous. 

Livers did not observe the slide of the curtain to the apart¬ 
ment, nor the entrance of Dillon. He was deeply absorbed in 
contemplation; his head rested heavily upon his two palms, 
while his eyes were deeply fixed upon the now opened minia¬ 
ture which he had torn from the neck of Lucy Munro, and 
which rested before him. He sighed not—he spoke not, but 
ever and anon, as if perfectly unconscious all the while of what 
he did, he drank from the tumbler of the compounded draught 
that stood before him, hurriedly and desperately, as if to keep 
the strong emotion from choking him. There was in his look 
a bitter agony of expression, indicating a vexed spirit, now 
more strongly than ever at work in a way which had, indeed, 
been one of the primest sources of his miserable life. It was a 
spirit ill at rest with itself—vexed at its own feebleness of ex¬ 
ecution— its incapacity to attain and acquire the realization 
of its own wild and vague conceptions. His was the ambition 
of one who discovers at every step that nothing can be known, 
yet will not give up the unprofitable pursuit, because, even 
while making the discovery, he still hopes vainly that he may 
yet, in his own person, give the maxim the lie. For ever soar¬ 
ing to the sun, he was for ever realizing the fine Grecian fable 
of Icarus; and the sea of disappointment into which he perpet¬ 
ually fell, with its tumultuous tides and ever-chafing billows, 
bearing him on from whirlpool to whirlpool, for ever battling 
and for ever lost. He was unconscious, as we have said, of the 
entrance and approach of his lieutenant, and words of bitter¬ 
ness, in soliloquy, fell at brief periods from his lips.— 

“ It is after all the best—” he mused. “ Despair is the true 
philosophy, since it begets indifference. Why should I hope ? 
What prospect is there now, that these eyes, that lip, these 
many graces, and the imperial pride of that expression, which 
looks out like a high soul from the heaven that men talk and 
dream of—what delusion is there now to bid me hope they 
ever can be more to me than they are now ? I care not for 
the world’s ways — nor feel I now the pang of its scorn and its 


THE OUTLAWS. 


327 


outlawry; yet I would it were not so, that 1 might, upon a 
field as fair as that of the most successful, assert my claim, and 
woo and win her—not with those childish notes of common¬ 
place—that, sickly cant of sentimental stuff which I despise, 
and which I know she despises no less than I. 

“Yet, when this field was mine, as I now desire it, what 
more did it avail me ? Where was the strong sense—the lofty 
reason that should then have conquered with an unobstructed 
force, sweeping all before it, as the flame that rushes through 
the long grass of the prairies? Gone — prostrate — dumb. 
The fierce passion was upward, and my heart was then more 
an outlaw than I myself am now. 

“ Yet there is one hope — one chance—one path, if not to her 
affections, at least to her. It shall be done, and then, most 
beautiful witch, cold, stern, and to me heartless, as thou hast 
ever been—thou shalt not always triumph. I would that I 
could sleep on this—I would that I could sleep. There is but 
one time of happiness—but one time when the thorn has no 
sting—when the scorn bites not—when the sneer chafes not— 
when the pride and the spirit shrink not — when there is no 
wild passion to make everything a storm and a conflagration 
among the senses—and that is—when one forgets!—I would 
that I could sleep !” 

As he spoke, his head sunk upon the table with a heavy 
sound, as if unconsciousness had really come with the articu¬ 
lated wish. He started quickly, however, as now, for the first 
time, the presence of Dillon became obvious, and hurriedly 
thrusting the portrait into his vest, he turned quickly to the 
intruder, and sternly demanded the occasion of his interruption. 
The lieutenant was prepared, and at once replied to the inter¬ 
rogatory with the easy, blunt air of one who not only felt that 
he might be confided in, but who was then in the strict per¬ 
formance of his duties. 

“ I came at your own call, captain. I have just returned 
from the river, and skirting down in that quarter, and was kept 
something later than I looked for; hearing, on my arrival, that 
you had been inquiring for me, I did not hesitate to present my- 
sent at once, not knowing but the business might be pressing.” 

“ It is pressing,” responded the outlaw, seemingly well satis- 


328 


GUY RIVERS. 


tied with the tacit apology. “It is pressing, Dillon, and you 
will have little time for rest before starting again. I myself 
have been riding all night, and shall be off in another hour. 
But what have you to report ] What’s in the wind now V* 

“ I hear but little, sir. There is some talk about a detach¬ 
ment of the Georgia guard, something like a hundred men, to 
be sent out expressly for our benefit; but I look upon this as a 
mistake. Their eye is rather upon the miners, and the Indian 
gold lands and those who dig it, and not upon those who merely 
take it after it is gathered. I have heard, too, of something 
like a brush betwixt Fullam’s troop and the miners at Tracy’s 
diggings, but no particulars, except that the guard got the worst 
of it.” 

“ On that point I am already advised. That is well for us, 
since it will turn the eye of the authorities in-a quarter in which 
we have little to do. I had some hand in that scrape myself, and 
set the dogs on with this object; and it is partly on this matter 
that I would confer with you, since there are some few of our 
men in the village who had large part in it, who must not be 
hazarded, and must yet stay there.” 

“ If the brush was serious, captain, that will be a matter of 
some difficulty; for of late, there has been so much of our busi¬ 
ness done, that government, I believe, has some thought of 
taking it up, and in order to do so without competition, will 
think of putting us down. Uncle Sam and the states, too, are 
quarrelling in the business, and, as I hear, there is like to be 
warm work between them. The Georgians are quite hot on 
the subject, and go where I will, they talk of nothing else than 
hanging the president, the Indians, and all the judges. They 
are brushing up their rifles, and they speak out plain.” 

“ The more sport for us—but this is all idle. It will all end 
in talk, and whether it do or not, we, at least, have nothing to 
do with it. But, there is drink—fill—and let us look to busi¬ 
ness before either of us sleep.” 

The lieutenant did as suggested by Rivers, who, rising from 
his seat, continued for some time to pace the apartment, evi. 
dently in deep meditation. He suddenly paused, at length, and 
resuming his seat, inquired of Dillon as to the manner in 
which he had been employed through the last few days. 


THE OUTLAWS. 


329 


A narrate ,n, not necessary to repeat, followed from the officer, 
in which the numerous petty details of frontier irregularity 
made up the chief material. Plots and counterplots were rife 
in his story, and more than once the outlaw interrupted his 
officer in the hope of abridging the petty particulars of some 
of their attenuated proportions—an aim not always successful, 
since, among the numerous virtues of Lieutenant Dillon, that 
of precision and niceness in his statements must not be omitted 
To this narration, however, though called for by himself, the 
superior yielded but little attention, until he proceed to describe 
the adventure of the night, resulting so unsuccessfully, with the 
emigrating farmer. When he described the persons of the two 
strangers, so unexpectedly lending their aid in defence of the 
traveller, a new interest was awakened in the features and 
manner of his auditor, who here suddenly and with energy 
interrupted him, to make inquiries with regard to their dress 
and appearance, which not a little surprised Dillon, who had 
frequently experienced the aversion of his superior to all seem¬ 
ingly unnecessary minutiae. Having been satisfied on these 
points, the outlaw rose, and pacing the apartment with slow 
steps, seemed to meditate some design which the narrative had 
suggested. Suddenly pausing, at length, as if all the necessary 
lights had shone in upon his deliberations at once, he turned to 
Dillon, who stood in silent waiting, and thus proceeded:— 

“I have it,” said he, half-musingly, “I have it, Dillon—it 
must be so. How far, say you, is it from the place where the 
man—what’s his name—encamped last night?” 

“ Nine or ten miles, perhaps, or more.” 

“ And you know his route for to-day ?” 

“ There is now but one which he can take, pursuing the route 
which he does.” 

“ And upon that he will not go more than fifteen or twenty 
miles in the day. But not so with him — not so with him. He 
will scarcely be content to move at that pace, and there will be 
no hope in that way to overtake him. 

Rivers spoke in soliloquy, and Dillon, though accustomed to 
many of the mental irregularities of his superior, exhibited 
something like surprise as he looked upon the lbwering brows 
and unwonted indecision of the outlaw. 


330 


GUY RIVERS. 


“Of whom does the captain speak V 7 was his inquiry. 

“Of idiom 1 —of him—oi him/” was the rather abrupt 
response of the superior, who seemed to regard the ignorance 
of his lieutenant as to the object in view, with almost as much 
wondei as that worthy entertained at the moment for the 
hallucinations of his captain. 

Of whom should I speak — of whom should I think but the 
one—accursed, fatal and singular, who—” and he stopped 
short, while his mind, now comprehending the true relationship 
between himself and the person beside him, which, in his 
moody self-examination, he had momentarily forgotten, pro¬ 
ceeded to his designs with all his wonted coherence. 

“ I wander, Dillon, and am half-asleep. The fact is, I am 
almost worn out with this unslumbering motion. I have not 
been five hours out of the saddle in the last twenty-four, and it 
requires something more of rest, if I desire to do well what I 
have on hand—what, indeed, we both have on hand.” 

There was something apologetic in the manner, if noc in the 
language, of the speaker; and his words seemed to indicate, if 
possible, an excuse for the incoherence of his address, in the 
physical fatigue which he had undergone — in this way to 
divert suspicion from those mental causes of excitement, of 
which, in the present situation, he felt somewhat ashamed. 
Pouring out a glass of liquor, and quaffing it without pause, he 
motioned to the lieutenant to do the same—a suggestion not 
possible for that person to misunderstand — and then proceeded 
to narrate such portions of the late occurrences in and about 
the village as it was necessary he should know. lie carefully 
suppressed his own agency in any of these events, for, with the 
policy of the ancient, he had learned, at an early period in his 
life, to treat his friend as if he might one day become his enemy; 
and, so far as such a resolution might consistently be maintained, 
while engaged in such an occupation as his, he rigidly observed 
it. 

“ The business, Dillon, which I want you to execute, and to 
which you will give all your attention, is difficult and trouble¬ 
some, and requires ingenuity. Mark Forrester was killed last 
night, as is supposed, in a fray with a youth named Colleton, 
like himself a Carol nian. If such is not the opinion yet, I am 


THE OUTLAWS. 


331 


determined such shall be the opinion; and have made arrange¬ 
ments by which the object will be attained. Of course the 
murderer should be taken, and I have reasons to desire that 
this object too should be attained. It is on this business, then, 
that you are to go. You must be the officer to take him.” 

“ But where is he ? if within reach, you know there is no 
difficulty.” 

“ Hear me; there is difficulty though he is within reach. 
He is one of the men whom you found with the old farmer you 
would otherwise have attacked last night. There is difficulty, 
for he will fight like a wild beast, and stick to his ground like 
a rattlesnake; and, supported by the old fellow whom you found 
him with, he will be able to resist almost any force which you 
could muster on the emergency. The only fear I have is, that 
being well-mounted, he will not keep with the company, but as 
they must needs travel slowly, he will go on and leave them.” 

“ Should it not rather be a source of satisfaction than other¬ 
wise—will it not put him more completely at our disposal '! 

“ No; for having so much the start of you, and a good ani¬ 
mal, he will soon leave all pursuit behind him. There is a plan 
which I have been thinking of, and which will be the very 
thing, if at once acted upon. You know the sheriff, Maxson, 
lives on the same road; you must take two of the men with 
you, pick fresh and good horses, set off to Maxson’s at once with 
a letter which I shall give you, and he will make you special 
deputies for the occasion of this young man’s arrest. I have 
arranged it so that the suspicion shall take the shape of a legal 
warrant, sufficient to authorize his arrest and detention. The 
proof of his offence will be matter of after consideration.” 

“ But will Maxson do this—may he not refuse ? You know 
he has been once before threatened with being brought up for 
his leaning toward us, in that affair of the Indian chief, Enaka- 
mon.” 

“He cannot—he dare not refuse!” said the outlaw, rising 
impatiently. “ He holds his place and his life at my disposal, 
and he knows it. He w T ill not venture to refuse me !” 

He has been very scrupulous of late in all his dealings with 
us, you know, and has rather kept out of our way. Besides 
that, he has been thorough going at several camp-meetings 


332 


GUY RIVERS. 


lately, and, when a man begins to appear over-honest, I think 
it high time he should be looked after by all parties.” 

“You are right, Dillon, you are right. I should not trust it 
to paper either. I will go myself. But you shall along with 
me, and on the way I will put you in a train for bringing out 
certain prisoners whom it is necessary that we should secure 
before the sitting of the court, and until it is over. They might 
be foolish enough to convict themselves of being more honest 
than their neighbors, and it is but humane to keep them from 
the commission of an impropriety. Give orders for the best 
two of your troop, and have horses saddled for all four of us. 
We must be on the road.” 

Dillon did as directed, and returned to the conference, which 
was conducted, on the part of his superior, with a degree of 
excitation, mingled with a sharp asperity of manner, something 
unwonted for him in the arranging of any mere matter of busi¬ 
ness. 

“ Maxson will not refuse us; if he do, I will hang him by 
my saddle-straps. The scoundrel owes his election to our votes, 
and shall he refuse us what we ask 1 He knows his fate too 
well to hesitate. And then, Dillon, when you have his com¬ 
mission for the arrest of this boy, spare not the spur: secure 
him at all hazards of horseflesh or personal inconvenience. He 
will not resist the laws, or anything having their semblance; 
nor, indeed, has he any reason—” 

“No reason, sir! why, did you not say he had killed Forres¬ 
ter ?” inquired his companion. 

“ Your memory is sharp, master lieutenant; I did say, and I 
say so still. But he affects to think not, and I should not be at 
all surprised if he not only deny it to you, but in reality disbe¬ 
lieve it himself. Have you not heard of men who have learned 
in time to believe the lies of their own invention ? Why not men 
doubt the truth of their own doings ? There are such men, and 
he may be one of them. He may deny stoutly and solemnly 
the charge, but let him not deceive you or baffle your pursuit. 
We shall prove it upon him, and he shall hang, Dillon — ay, 
hang, hang, hang—though it be under her very eyes !” 

It was in this way that, in the progress of the dialogue which 
took place between the chief and his subordinate, the rambling 


THE OUTLAWS. 


33o 


malignity would break through the cooler counsels of the vil¬ 
lain, and dark glimpses of the mystery of the transaction would 
burst upon the senses of the latter. Rivers had the faculty, 
however, of never exhibiting too much of himself; and when 
hurried on by a passion seemingly too fierce and furious for 
restraint, he would suddenly curb himself in, while a sharp and 
scornful smile would curl his lips, as if he felt a consciousness, 
not only of his own powers of command, but of his impenetra¬ 
bility to all analysis. 

The horses being now ready, the outlaw, buckling on his 
pistols, and hiding his dirk in his bosom, threw a huge cloak 
over his shoulders, which fully concealed his person; and, in 
company with his lieutenant, and two stout men of his band, all 
admirably and freshly mounted, they proceeded to the abode 
of the sheriff. 

This man, connected, though secretly, with Rivers and Munro, 
was indebted to them and the votes which in that region they 
could throw into the boxes, for his elevation to the office which 
lie held, and was, as might reasonably have been expected, a 
mere creature under their management. Maxson, of late days, 
however, whether from a reasonable apprehension, increasing 
duly with increasing years, that he might become at last so 
involved in the meshes of those crimes of his colleagues, from 
which, while ho was compelled to share the risk, he was denied 
in great part the profit, had grown scrupulous — had avoided as 
much as possible their connexion; and, the better to strengthen 
himself in the increasing favor of public opinion, had taken 
advantage of all those externals of morality and virtue which, 
unhappily, too frequently conceal qualities at deadly hostility 
with them. He had, in the popular phrase of the country, “ got 
religionand, like the worthy reformers of the Cromwell era, 
everything which he did, and everything which he said, had 
Scripture for its authority. Psalm-singing commenced and 
ended the day in his house, and graces before meat anl graces 
before sleep, prayers and ablutions, thanksgivings and fastings, 
had so much thinned the animal necessities of his household, 
that a domestic war was the consequence, and the sheriff and 
the sheriff’s lady held separate sway, having equally divided the 
dwelling between them, and ruling each their respective sover- 


334 


GUY RIVERS. 


eignties with a most jealous watchfulness. All rights, not 
expressly delegated in the distribution of powers originally, 
were insisted on even to blood; and the arbitration of the 
sword, or rather the poker, once appealed to, most emphatically, 
by the sovereign of the gentler sex, had cut off the euphonious 
utterance of one of the choicest paraphrases of Sternhold and 
Hopkins in the middle; and by bruising the scull of the re¬ 
formed and reforming sheriff, had nearly rendered a new election 
necessary to the repose and well-being of the comity in which 
they lived. 

But the worthy convert recovered, to the sore discomfiture 
of his spouse, and to the comfort and rejoicing of all true be¬ 
lievers. The breach in his head was healed, but that which 
separated his family remained the same— 

“ As rocks that had been rent asunder.” 

They knew the fellowship of man and wife only in so much as 
was absolutely essential to the keeping up of appearances to the 
public eye—-a matter necessary to maintaining her lord in the 
possession of his dignity; which, as it conferred honor and 
profit, through him, upon her also, it was of necessity a part of 
her policy to continue. 

There had been a brush — a small gust had passed over that 
fair region of domestic harmony — on the very morning upon 
which the outlaw and his party rode up the untrimmed and half- 
overgrown avenue, which led to the house of the writ-server. 
There had been an amiable discussion between the two, as to 
which of them, with propriety, belonged the duty of putting on 
the breeches of their son Tommy, preparatory to his making his 
appearance at the breakfast-table. Some extraneous influence 
had that morning prompted the sheriff to resist the performance 
of a task which had now for some time been imposed upon him, 
and for which, therefore, there was the sanction Df prescription 
and usage. It was an unlucky moment for the assertion of his 
manhood: for, a series of circumstances operating just about 
that time unfavorably upon the mind of his wife, she was in the 
worst possible humor upon which to try experiments. 

She heard the refusal of her liege to do the required duty, 
therefore, with an astonishment, not unmingled with a degree 


THE OUTLAWS. 


386 


of pleasure, as it gave a full excuse for the venting forth upon 
him of those splenetic humors, which, for some time, had been 
growing and gathering in her system. The little sheriff, from 
long attendance on courts and camps , had acquired something 
more, perhaps, of the desire and disposition, than the capacity, 
to make long speeches and longer sermons, in the performance 
of both of which labors, however, he was admirably fortified 
by the technicals of the law, and the Bible phraseology. The 
quarrel had been waged for some time, and poor Tommy, the 
bone of contention, sitting all the while between the contending 
parties in a state of utter nudity, kept up a fine running accom¬ 
paniment to the full tones of the wranglers, by crying bitterly 
for his breeches. 

For the first time for a long period of years, the lady found 
her powers of tongue fail in the proposed effect upon the under¬ 
standing of her loving and legal lord; and knowing but of one 
other way to assail it, her hand at length grappling with the 
stool, from which she tumbled the breechless babe without 
ucruple, seized upon an argument to which her adversary could 
oppose neither text nor technical; when, fortunately for him, 
fhe loud rapping of their early visiters at the outeir door of the 
dwelling interposed between her wrath and its object, and 
spared the life of the devout sheriff for other occurrences. 
Bundling the naked child out of sight, the mother rushed into 
an inner apartment, shaking the stool in the pale countenance 
of her lord as she retreated, in a manner and with a look which 
said, as plainly as words could say, that this temporary delay 
would only sharpen her appetite for vengeance, and exaggerate 
its terrors when the hour did arrive. It was with a hesitating 
step and wobegone countenance, therefore, that the officer pro¬ 
ceeded to his parlor, where a no less troublesome, but less awk¬ 
ward, trial awaited him. 


886 


GUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

ARREST. 

The high-sheriff made his appearance before his early and 
well-known visiters with a desperate air of composure and un¬ 
concern, the effort to attain which was readily perceptible to his 
companions. He could not, in the first place, well get rid of 
those terrors of the domestic world from which their interrup 
tion had timely shielded him; nor, on the other hand, could he 
feel altogether assured that the visit now paid him would not 
result in the exaction of some usurious interest. He had re¬ 
cently, as we have said, as much through motives of worldly as 
spiritual policy, become an active religionist, in a small way, in 
and about the section of country in which he resided; and 
knowing that his professions were in some sort regarded with no 
6mall degree of doubt and suspicion by some of his brethren hold¬ 
ing the same faith, he felt the necessity of playing a close and 
cautious game in all his practices. He might well be apprehen¬ 
sive, therefore, of the visits of those who never came but as so 
many omens of evil, and whose claims upon, and perfect knowl¬ 
edge of, his true character, were such, that he felt himself, in 
many respects, most completely at their mercy. 

Rivers did not give much time to preliminaries, but, after a 
few phrases of commonplace, coming directly to the point, he 
stated the business in hand, and demanded the assistance of the 
officer of justice for the arrest of one of its fugitives. There 
were some difficulties of form in the matter, which saved the 
sheriff in part, and which the outlaw had in great part over 
looked. A warrant of arrest was necessary from some officer 
properly empowered to issue one, and a new difficulty was thus 
presented in the way of Colleton’s pursuit. The sheriff had not 
the slightest objections to making deputies of the persons recom- 


ARREST. 


337 


mended by the outlaw, provided they were fully empowered to 
execute the commands of some judicial officer; beyond this, the 
scrupulous executioner of justice was unwilling to go ; and hav¬ 
ing stood out so long in the previous controversy with his spouse, 
it was wonderful what a vast stock of audacious courage he now 
felt himself entitled, and ventured, to manifest. 

“I can not do it, Master Guy — it’s impossible—seeing, in 
the first place, that I ha’n’t any right by the laws to issue any 
warrant, though it’s true, I has to serve them. Then, agin, in 
the next place, ’twont do for another reason that’s jist as good, 
you see. It’s only the other day, Master Guy, that the fear of 
the Lord come upon me, and I got religion; and now I’ve set 
myself up as a worker in other courts, you see, than those of 
man; and there be eyes around me that would see, and hearts 
to rejoice at the backslidings of the poor laborer. Howbeit, 
Master Guy, I am not the man to forget old sarvice; and if it 
be true that this man has been put to death in this manner, 
though I myself can do nothing at this time, I may put you in 
the way—for the sake of old time, and for the sake of justice, 
which requires that the slayer of his brother should also be 
slain — of having your wish.” 

Though something irritated still at the reluctance of his for¬ 
mer creature to lend himself without scruple to his purposes, 
the outlaw did not hesitate to accept the overture, and to press 
for its immediate accomplishment. He had expostulated with 
the sheriff for some time on the point, and, baffled and denied, 
he was very glad, at the conclusion of the dialogue with that 
worthy, to find that there was even so much of a prospect of 
concert, though falling far short of his original anticipations, 
from that quarter. He was too well aware, also, of the diffi¬ 
culty in the way of any proceeding without something savoring 
of authority in the matter; for, from a previous and rather cor¬ 
rect estimate of Colleton’s character, he well foresaw that, 
knowing his enemy, he would fight to the last against an ar¬ 
rest ; which, under the forms of law and with the sanction of a 
known officer, he would otherwise readily recognise and submit 
to. Seizing, therefore, upon the speech of the sheriff, Rivers 
eagerly availed himself of its opening to obtain those advanta¬ 
ges in the affair, of which, from the canting spirit and newly- 

15 


338 


GUY RIVERS. 


awakened morality of his late coadjutor, he had utterly begun 
to despair. He proceeded to reply to the suggestion as fol¬ 
lows :— 

“ I suppose, I must content myself, Maxson, with doing in 
this thing as you say, though really I see not why you should 
now he so particular, for there are not ten men in the county 
who arc able to determine upon any of your powers, or who 
would venture to measure their extent. Let us hear your plan, 
and I suppose it will be effectual in our object, and this is all I 
want. All I desire is, that our people, you know, should not 
be murdered by strangers without rhyme or reason.” 

The sheriff knew well the hypocrisy of the sentiment with 
which Rivers concluded, but made no remark. A single smile 
testified his knowledge of the nature of his colleague, and indi¬ 
cated his suspicion of a deeper and different motive for this new 
activity. Approaching the outlaw closely, he asked, in a half 
whisper:— 

“Who was the witness of the murder—who could swear for 
the magistrate ? You must get somebody to do that.” 

This was another point which Rivers, in his impatience, had 
lot thought to consider. But fruitful in expedient, his fertile 
mind suggested that ground of suspicion was all that the law re¬ 
quired for apprehension at least, and having already arranged 
that the body of the murdered man should be found under cer¬ 
tain circumstances, he contented himself with procuring commis¬ 
sions, as deputies, for his two officers, and posted away to the 
village. 

Hero, as he anticipated, the intelligence had already been re¬ 
ceived—the body of Forrester had been found, and sufficient 
ground for suspicion to authorize a warrant was recognised in the 
dirk of the youth, which, smeared with blood as it had been left by 
Rivers, had been found upon the body. Rivers had but little to do. 
He contrived, however, to do nothing himself. The warrant of 
Pippin, as magistrate, was procured, and the two officers commis¬ 
sioned by the sheriff went off in pursuit of the supposed murderer, 
against whom the indignation of all the village was sufficiently 
heightened by the recollection of the close intimacy existing 
between Ralph and Forrester, and the nobly characteristic man¬ 
ner in which the latter had volunteered to do his fighting with 


ARREST. 


389 


Rivers. The murdered man had, independent of this, no small 
popularity of his own, which brought out for him a warm and 
active sympathy highly creditable to his memory. Old Allen, 
too, suffered deeply, not less on his own than his daughter’s ac¬ 
count. She, poor girl, had few words, and her sorrow, silent, if 
not tearless, was confined to the solitude of her own chamber. 

In the prosecution of the affair against Ralph, there was but 
one person whose testimony could have availed him, and that 
person was Lucy Munro. As the chief particular in evidence, 
and that which established the strong leading presumption 
against him, consisted in the discovery of his dagger alongside 
the body of the murdered man, and covered with his blood; it 
was evident that she who could prove the loss of the dagger by 
the youth, and its finding by Munro, prior to the event, and un¬ 
accompanied by any tokens of crime, would not only be able to 
free the person suspected, at least from this point of suspicion, 
but would be enabled to place its burden elsewhere, and with 
the most conclusive distinctness. 

This was a dilemma which Rivers and Munro did not fail to 
consider. The private deliberation, for an hour, of the two con¬ 
spirators, determined upon the course which for mutual safety they 
were required to pursue; and Munro gave his niece due notice to 
prepare for an immediate departure with her aunt and himself, on 
some plausible pretence, to another portion of the country. 

To such a suggestion, as Lucy knew not the object, she of¬ 
fered no objection; and a secret departure was effected of the 
three, who, after a lonely ride of several hours through a route 
circuitously chosen to mislead, were safely brought to the shel¬ 
tered and rocky abiding-place of the robbers, as we have al¬ 
ready described it. Marks of its offensive features, however, 
had been so modified as not to occasion much alarm. The 
weapons of war had been studiously put out of sight, and apart¬ 
ments, distinct from those we have seen, partly the work of na¬ 
ture, and partly of man, were assigned for the accommodation of 
the new-comers. The outlaws had their instructions, and did 
not appear, though lurking and watching around in close and 
constant neighborhood. 

Nor, in this particular alone, had the guilty parties made due 
provision for their future safety. The affair of the guard had 


GUY RIVERS. 


*4C 

made more stir than had been anticipated in the rash moment 
which had seen its consummation; and their advices warned 
them of the approach of a much larger force of state troops, 
obedient to the direction of the district-attorney, than they 
could well contend with. They determined, therefore, pru¬ 
dently for themselves, to keep as much out of the way of de¬ 
tection as they could; and to avoid those risks upon which a 
previous conference had partially persuaded them to adventure. 
They were also apprized of the greater excitement attending 
the fate of Forrester, than could possibly have followed the 
death, in his place, of the contemplated victim; and, adopting 
a habit of caution, heretofore but little considered in that re¬ 
gion, they prepared for all hazards, and, at the same time, tacit¬ 
ly determined upon the suspension of their numerous atrocities 
— at least, while a controlling force was in the neighborhood. 
Previous impunity had led them so far, that at length the 
neighboring country was aroused, and all the better classes, 
taking advantage of the excitement, grew bolder in the expres¬ 
sion of their anger against those who had beset them so long. 
The sheriff, Maxson, had been something tutored by these in¬ 
fluences, or, it had been fair to surmise that his scruples would 
have been less difficult to overcome. 

In the meantime, the pursuit of Ralph Colleton, as the mur¬ 
derer of Forrester, had been hotly urged by the officers. The 
pursuers knew the route, and having the control of new horses 
as they proceeded, at frequent intervals, gained of course at 
every step upon the unconscious travellers. We have seen the 
latter retiring to repose at a late hour of the night. Under the 
several fatigues which all parties had undergone, it is not strange 
that the sun should have arisen some little time before those who 
had not retired quite so early as himself. At a moderately late 
hour they breakfasted together — the family of the wagoner, and 
Ralph, and our old friend the pedler. Pursuing the same route, 
the two latter, after the repast, separated, with many acknowl¬ 
edgments on both sides, from the emigrating party, and pursued 
their way together. 

On their road, Bunce gave the youth a long and particular 
account of all those circumstances at the village-inn by which 
he had been deprived of his chattels, and congratulated himself 


ARREST, 


341 


not a little on the adroit thought which had determined him to 
retain the good steed of the Lawyer Pippin in lieu of his losses. 
He spoke of it as quite a clever and creditable performance, and 
one as fully deserving the golden honors of the medal as many 
of those doings which are so rewarded. 

On this point his companion said little; and though he could 
not altogether comprehend the propriety of the pedler’s morals, 
he certainly did not see but that the necessity and pressing dan¬ 
ger of his situation somewhat sanctioned the deceit. He sug¬ 
gested this idea to Bunee, but when he came to talk of the pro¬ 
priety of returning the animal the moment he was fairly in 
safety, the speculator failed entirely to perceive the moral of 
his philosophy. 

The sheriff 's officers came upon the wagoner a few hours after 
the two had separated from him. The intelligence received from 
him quickened their pace, and toward noon they descried our 
travellers ascending a hill a few hundred yards in advance of 
them. A repeated application of the spur brought them to¬ 
gether, and, as had been anticipated by Rivers, Ralph offered 
not the slightest objection, when once satisfied of the legality 
of his arrest, to becoming their prisoner. But the consternation 
of Bunce was inexpressible. He endeavored to shelter himself 
in the adjoining woods, and was quietly edging his steed into 
the covert for that purpose, on the first alarm, but was not per¬ 
mitted by the sharp eyes and ready unscrupulosity of the rob¬ 
ber representatives of the law. They had no warrant, it is 
true, for the arrest of any other person than “ the said Ralph 
Colleton” — but the unlucky color of Pippin’s horse, and their 
perfect knowledge of the animal, readily identifying him, did 
the business for the pedler. 

Under the custody of the laws, therefore, we behold the youth 
retracing his ground, horror-stricken at the death of Forrester— 
indignant at the suspicions entertained of himself as the mur¬ 
derer, but sanguine of the result, and firm and fearless as ever. 
Not so Bunce r there were cruel visions in his sight of seven¬ 
sided pine-rails—fierce regulators — Lynch’s law, and all that 
rude and terrible sort of punishment, which is studiously put in 
force in those regions for the enjoyment of evil-doers. The next 
day found them both securely locked up in the common jail of 
Chestatee. 


342 


GUY KIVKRft. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

CHUB WILLIAMS. 

The yoang mind of Colleton, excursive as it was, could 
scarcely realize to itself the strange and rapidly-succeeding 
changes of the last few days. Self-exiled from the dwelling in 
which so much of his heart and hope had been stored up — a 
wanderer among the wandering—assaulted by ruffians—the 
witness of their crimes—pursued by the officers of justice, and 
iinally the tenant of a prison, as a criminal himself! After the 
first emotions of astonishment and vexation had subsided — ig¬ 
norant of the result of this last adventure, and preparing for the 
worst—he called for pen and paper, and briefly, to his uncle, 
recounted his adventures, as we have already related them, par¬ 
tially acknowledging his precipitance in departing from his 
house, but substantially insisting upon the propriety of those 
grounds which had made him do so. 

To Edith, what could he say 1 ? Nothing — everything, liis 
letter to her, enclosed in that to her uncle, was just such as 
might be expected from one with a character such as we have 
endeavored to describe—that of the genuine aristocrat of Caro¬ 
lina— gentle, but firm — soothing, but manly — truly, but lofti¬ 
ly affectionate—the rock touched, if not softened by the sun¬ 
beam ; warm and impetuous, but generally just in his emotions 
— liberal in his usual estimate of mankind, and generous, to a 
fault, in all his associations; — ignorant of any value in money, 
unless for high purposes—as subservient to taste and civiliza¬ 
tion— a graceful humanity and an honorable affection. 

With a tenderness the most respectful, Ralph reiterated his 
love — prayed for her prayers—frankly admitted his error in 
his abrupt flight, and freely promised atonement as soon as he 
should be freed from his difficulties; an event which, in speak- 


CHUB WILLIAMS. 


343 


ing to her, he doubted not. This duty over, his mind grow 
somewhat relieved, and, despatching a note by the jailer’s dep¬ 
uty to the lawyer Pippin, he desired immediately to see him. 

Pippin had looked for such an invitation, and was already in 
attendance. His regrets were prodigious, but his gratification 
not less, as it would give him an opportunity, for some time 
desired, for serving so excellent a gentleman. But the lawyer 
shook his head with most professional uncertainty at every step 
of his own narration of the case, and soon convinced Ralph that 
he really stood in a very awkward predicament. He described 
the situation of the body of Forrester when found; the bloody 
dirk which lay beside it, having the initials of his name plainly 
carved upon it; his midnight flight; his close companionship 
with Forrester on the evening of the night in which he had 
been murdered—a fact proved by old Allen and his family; 
the intimate freedom with which Forrester had been known to 
confide his purposes to the youth, deducible from the joint call 
which they had made upon the sweetheart of the former; and 
many other smaller details, unimportant in themselves, but 
linked together with the rest of the particulars, strengthening 
the chain of circumstances against him to a degree which ren¬ 
dered it improbable that he should escape conviction. 

Pippin sought, however, to console his client, and, after the 
first development of particulars, the natural buoyancy of the 
youth returned. He was not disposed readily to despair, and 
his courage and confidence rose with the pressure of events. 
He entered into a plain story of all the particulars of his flight 
— the instrumentality of Miss Munro in that transaction, and 
which she could explain, in such a manner as to do away with 
nny unfavorable impression which that circumstance, of itself, 
might create. Touching the dagger, he could say nothing. 
He had discovered its loss, but knew not at what time lie had 
lost it. The manner in which it had been found was, of course, 
fatal, unless the fact which he alleged of its loss could be estab¬ 
lished ; and of this the consulting parties saw no hope. Still, 
they did not despair, but proceeded to the task of preparing 
the defence for the day of trial, which was at hand. The tech¬ 
nical portions of the case were managed by the lawyer, who 
issued his subpoenas — made voluminous notes — wrote out the 


344 


GUY RIVERS. 


exordium of his speech—and sat up all night committing it to 
memory. 

Having done all that the oecasion called for in his interview 
with Ralph, the lawyer proceeded to visit, uncalled-for, one 
whom he considered a far greater criminal than his client. The 
cell to which the luckless pedler, Bunce, had been carried, was 
not far from that of the former, and the rapid step of the lawyer 
soon overcame the distance between. 

Never was man seemingly so glad to see his neighbor as 
was Bunce, on this occasion, to look upon Pippin. His joy 
found words of the most honeyed description for his visiter, and 
his delight was truly infectious. The lawyer was delighted too, 
but his satisfaction was of a far different origin. He had now 
some prospect of getting back his favorite steed—that fine ani¬ 
mal, described by him elsewhere to the pedler, as docile as the 
dog, and fleet as the deer. He had heard of the safety of his 
horse, and his anger with the pedler had undergone some abate¬ 
ment ; but, with the consciousness of power common to inferior 
minds, came a strong desire for its use. He knew that the ped¬ 
ler had been guilty in a legal sense of no crime, and could only 
be liable in a civil action for his breach of trust. But he sus¬ 
pected that the dealer in wares was ignorant of the advantageous 
distinctions in morals which the law had made, and consequently 
amused himself with playing upon the fears of the offender. He 
put on a countenance of much commiseration, and, drawing a 
long sigh, regretted the necessity which had brought him to 
prepare the mind of his old friend for the last terrors of justice. 

But Bunce was not a man easily frightened. As he phrased 
it himself, he had been quite too long knocking about among 
men to be scared by shadows, and replied stoutly—though re¬ 
ally with some internal misgivings—to the lachrymalities of 
the learned counsel. He gave him to understand that, if he 
got into difficulty, he knew some other persons whom his con¬ 
fessions would make uncomfortable; and hinted pretty directly 
at certain practices of a certain professional gentleman, which, 
though the pedler knew nothing of the technical significant 
might yet come under the head of barratry, and so forth. 

The lawyer was the more timid man of the two, and found it 
necessary to pare down his potency. He soon found it profitn 


CHUB WILLIAMS. 


345 


ble to let the matter rest, and having made arrangements with 
the pedler for bringing suit for damages against two of the 
neighboring farmers concerned in the demolition of his wares— 
who, happening to be less guilty than their accessaries, had 
ventured to remain in the country — Bunce found no difficulty 
in making his way out of the prison. There had been no right 
originally to detain him; but the consciousness of guilt, and 
some other ugly misgivings, had so relaxed the nerves of the 
tradesman, that he had never thought to inquire if his name 
were included in the warrant of arrest. It is probable that his 
courage and confidence would have been far less than they ap¬ 
pear at present, had not Pippin assured him that the regulators 
were no longer to be feared ; that the judge had arrived; that 
the grand-jury had found bills against several of the offenders, 
and were still engaged in their labors; that a detachment of 
the state military had been ordered to the station; and that 
things looked as civil as it was altogether possible for such war¬ 
like exhibition to allow. It is surprising to think how fear¬ 
lessly uncompromising was the conduct of Bunce uuder this new 
condition of affairs. 

But the pedler, in his own release from custody, was not for¬ 
getful of his less-fortunate companion. He was a frequent vis¬ 
iter in the dungeon of Ralph Colleton; bore all messages be¬ 
tween the prisoner and his counsel; and contributed, by his 
shrewd knowledge of human kind, not a little to the material 
out of which his defence was to be made. 

He suggested the suspicion, never before entertained by the 
youth, or entertained for a moment only, that his present arrest 
was the result of a scheme purposely laid with a reference to 
this end; and did not scruple to charge upon Rivers the entire 
management of the matter. 

Ralph could only narrate what he knew of the malignant 
hatred of the outlaw to himself—another fact which none but 
Lucy Munro could establish. Her evidence, however, would 
only prove Rivers to have meditated one crime; it would not 
free him from the imputation of having committed another. 
Still, so much was important, and casualties were to be relied 
upon for the rest 

But what was the horror of all parties when it was known 
15 * 


346 


GUY III VERS. 


that neither Lucy nor any of the landlord’s family were to be 
found ! The process of su r bpcena was returned, and the general 
opinion was, that alarmed at ihe approach of the military in 
such force, and confident that his agency in the late transac¬ 
tions could not long remain concealed in the possession of so 
many, though guilty like himself, Munro had fled to the west. 

The mental agony of the youth, when thus informed, can not 
well be conceived. He was, for a time, utterly prostrate, and 
gave himself up to despair. The entreaties of the pedler, and 
the counsels and exhortings of the lawyer, failed equally to 
enliven him; and they had almost come to adopt his gloomy 
resignation, when, as he sat on his low bench, with head droop¬ 
ing on his hand, a solitary glance of sunshine fell through the 
barred window — the only one assigned to his cell. 

The smile of God himself that solitary ray appeared to the 
diseased spirit of the youth, and he grew strong in an instant. 
Talk of the lessons of the learned, and the reasonings of the 
sage!—a vagrant breeze, a rippling water, a glance of the 
sweet sunlight, have more of consolation in them for the sad 
heart than all the pleadings of philosophy. They bring the 
missives of a higher teacher. 

Bunce was an active coadjutor with the lawyer in this mel¬ 
ancholy case. He made all inquiries—he went everywhere. 
He searched in all places, and spared no labor; but at length 
despaired. Nothing could be elicited by his inquiries, and he 
ceased to hope himself, and ceased to persuade Ralph into hope. 
The lawyer shook his head in reply to all questions, and put on 
a look of mystery which is the safety-valve to all swollen pre¬ 
tenders. 

In this state of affairs, taking the horse of the youth, with a 
last effort at discoveries, Bunce rode forth into the surrounding 
country. He had heretofore taken all the common routes, to 
which, in his previous intercourse with the people, he had been 
accustomed; he now determined to strike into a path scarcely 
perceptible, and one which he never remembered to have seen 
before. He followed, mile after mile, its sinuosities. It was a 
wild, and, seemingly, an untrodden region. The hills shot up 
jaggedly from the plain around him—the fissures were rude 
and steep—more like embrasures, blown out by sudden power 


CHUB WILLIAMS. 


347 


from the solid rock. Where the forest appeared, it was dense 
and intricate — abounding in brush and underwood; where it 
w r as deficient, the blasted heath chosen by the witches in Mac¬ 
beth would have been no unfit similitude. 

Hopeless of human presence in this dreary region, the pedler 
yet rode on, as if .to dissipate the unpleasant thoughts, following 
upon his frequent disappointment. Suddenly, however, a turn 
in the winding path brought him in contact with a strange- 
looking figure, not more than five feet in height, neither boy 
nor man, uncouthly habited, and seemingly one to whom all 
converse but that of the trees and rocks, during his whole life, 
had been unfamiliar. 

The reader has already heard something of the Cherokee 
pony—it was upon one of these animals he rode. They are a 
small, but compactly made and hardy creature — of great forti¬ 
tude, stubborn endurance, and an activity, which, in the travel 
of day after day, will seldom subside from the gallop. It was 
the increasing demand for these animals that had originally 
brought into existence and exercise a company, which, by a 
transition far from uncommon, passed readily from the plunder¬ 
ing of horses to the cutting of throats and purses; scarcely 
discriminating in their reckless rapacity between the several 
degrees of crime in which such a practice involved them. 

Though somewhat uncouth in appearance, the new-comer 
seemed decidedly harmless — nay, almost idiotic in appearance. 
His smile was pleasant, though illuminating features of the 
ruggedest description, and the tones of his voice were even 
musical in the ears of the pedler, to whom any voice would 
probably have seemed so in that gloomy region. He very 
sociably addressed Bunce in the patois of that section; and the 
ceremonial of introduction, without delay or difficulty, was 
overcome duly on both sides. In the southern wilderness, 
indeed, it does not call for much formality, nor does a strict 
adherence to the received rules of etiquette become at all neces¬ 
sary, to make the traveller “ hail fellow, well met.” Anything 
in that quarter, savoring of reserve or stiffness, is punished with 
decided hostility or openly-avowed contempt; and, in the more 
rude regions, the refusal to partake in the very social employ¬ 
ments of wrestling or whiskey-drinking, has brought the scrupu 


348 


GUY RIVERS. 


lous personage to the more questionable enjoyments of a regu* 
lar gouging match and fight. A demure habit is the most 
unpopular among all classes. Freedom of manner, on the other 
hand, obtains confidence readily, and the heart is won, at once, 
by an off-handed familiarity of demeanor, which fails to recog¬ 
nise any inequalities in human condition. Tl\e society and the 
continued presence of Nature, as it were, in her own peculiar 
abode, put aside all merely conventional distinctions, and men 
meet upon a common footing. Thus, even when perfect stran¬ 
gers to one another, after the usual preliminaries of “ how are 
you, friend,” or “ strannger ?”—“ whar from ?”—“ whar going ?” 
—“ fair” or “ foul weather”—as the case may be — the acquaint¬ 
ance is established, and familiarity well begun. Such was the 
case in the present instance. Bunce knew the people well, and 
exhibited his most unreluctant manner. The horses of the two, 
in like manner with their masters, made similar overtures; and, 
in a little while, their necks were drawn in parallel lines to¬ 
gether. 

Bunce was less communicative, however, than the stranger. 
Still his head and heart, alike, were full, and he talked more 
freely than was altogether consistent with his Yankee character. 
He told of Ralph's predicament, and the clown sympathized; 
he narrated the quest which had brought him forth, and of his 
heretofore unrewarded labors; concluded with naming the en¬ 
suing Monday as the day of the youth’s trial, when, if nothing 
in the meantime could be discovered of the true criminal—for 
the pedler never for a moment doubted that Ralph was innocent 
—he “ mortally feared things would go agin him.” 

“That will be hard, too—a mighty tough difficulty, now, 
strannger—to be hanged for other folks’ doings. But, I reckon, 
he’ll have to make up his mind to it.” 

“ Oh, no f don’t say so, now, my friend, I beg you. What 
makes you think so ?” said the anxious pedler. 

“ Why, only from what I heer'd you say. You said so your¬ 
self, and I believed it as if I had seed it,” was the reply of the 
simple countryman. 

“ Oh, yes. It’s but a poor chance with him now, I guess. 
I’d a notion tha* I could find out some little particular, you 
see—” 


CHUB WILLIAMS. 


349 


“ No, I don’t see.” 

“To be sure you don’t, but that’s my say. Everybody has 
a say, you know.” 

“ No, I don’t know.” 

“To be sure, of course you don’t know, but that’s what I tell 
you. Now you must know—” 

“ Don’t say must to me, strannger, if you want that we shall 
keep hands off. I don’t let any man say must to me.” 

“No harm, my friend—I didn’t mean no harm,” said the 
worried pedler, not knowing what to make of his acquaintance, 
who spoke shrewdly at times, but occasionally in a speech, 
which awakened the doubts of the pedler as to the safety of 
his wits. Avoiding all circumlocution of phrase, and dropping 
the “ you sees,” and “ you knows” from his narration, he pro¬ 
ceeded to state his agency in procuring testimony for the youth, 
and of the ill-success which had hitherto attended him. At 
length, in the course of his story, which he contrived to tell 
with as much caution as came within the scope of his educa¬ 
tion, he happened to speak of Lucy Munro; but had scarcely 
mentioned her name when his queer companion interrupted 
him:— 

“Look you, strannger, I’ll lick you now, off-hand, if you 
don’t put Miss for a handle to the gal’s name. She’s Miss 
Lucy. Don’t I know her, and han’t I seen her, and isn’t it I, 
Chub Williams, as they calls me, that, loves the very airth she 
treads ?” 

“You know Miss Lucy?” inquired the pedler, enraptured 
even at this moderate discovery, though carefully coupling the 
prefix to her name while giving it utterance—“now, do you 
know Miss Lucy, friend, and will you tell me where I can find 
her?” 

“ Do you think I will, and you may be looking arter her too? 
’Drot my old hat, strannger, but I do itch to git at you.’ 

“Oh, now, Mr. Williams—” 

“ I won’t answer to that name. Call me Chub Williams, if 
you wants to be perlite. Mother always calls me Chub, and 
that’s the reason I like it.” 

“Well, Chub,”—said the other, quite paternally—“I assure 
you I don’t love Miss Munro — and—” 


350 


GUY RIVERS. 


“ What! you don’t love Miss Lucy. Why, everybody ought 
to love her. Now, if you don’t love her, I’ll hammer you, 
strannger, off hand.” 

The poor pedler professed a proper sort of love for the young 
lady—not exactly such as would seek her for a wife, however, 
and succeeded in satisfying, after a while, the scruples of one 
-who, in addition to deformity, he also discovered to labor under 
the more serious curse of partial idiocy. Having done this, and 
flattered, in sundry other ways, the peculiarities of his compan 
ion, he pursued his other point with laudable pertinacity. 

He at length got from Chub his own history: how he had 
run into the woods with his mother, who had suffered from the 
ill-treatment of her husband: how, with his own industry, ho 
had sustained her wants, and supplied her with all the comforts 
which a long period had required; and how, dying at length, 
she had left him—the forest boy — alone, to pursue those toils 
which heretofore had an object, while she yielded him in return 
for them society and sympathy. These particulars, got from 
him in a manner the most desultory, were made to preface the 
more important parts of the narrative. 

It appears that his harmlessness had kept him undisturbed, 
even by the wild marauders of that region, and that he still 
continued to procure a narrow livelihood by his woodland labors, 
and sought no association with that humanity which, though 
among fellow-creatures, would still have lacked of fellowship 
for him. In the transfer of Lucy from the village to the shelter 
of the outlaws, he had obtained a glimpse of her person and 
form, and had ever since been prying in the neighborhood for a 
second and similar enjoyment. He now made known to the 
pedler her place of concealment, which he had, some time b jfore 
this event, himself discovered; but which, through dread of 
Rivers, for whom lie seemed to entertain an b ibitual fear, he 
had never ventured to penetrate. 

“Well, I must see her,” exclaimed Bunce. “I a’n’t afraid, 
’cause you see, Mr. Williams—Chub, I mean, it’s only justice, 
and to save the poor young gentleman’s life. I’m sure I oughtn’t 
to be afraid, and no more I a’n’t. Won’t you go there with me, 
Chub ?” 

“Can’t think of it, strannger. Guy is a dark man, and 


CHUB WILLIAMS. 351 

mother said I must keep away when he rode in the woods. 
Guy don’t talk—he shoots.” 

The pedler made sundry efforts to procure a companion foi 
his adventure; but finding it vain, and determined to do right, 
he grew more resolute with the necessity, and, contenting him¬ 
self with claiming the guidance of Chub, he went boldly on the 
path. Having reached a certain point in the woods, after a 
very circuitous departure from the main track, the guide pointed 
out to the pedler a long and rude ledge of rocks, so rude, so 
wild, that none could have ever conjectured to find them the 
abode of anything but the serpent and the wolf. But there, 
according to the idiot, was Lucy Munro concealed. Chub gave 
the pedler his directions, then alighting from his nag, which he 
concealed in a clump of neighboring brush, hastily and with the 
agility of a monkey ran up a neighboring tree which overhung 
the prospect. 

Bunce, left alone, grew somewhat staggered with his fears. 
He now half-repented of the self-imposed adventure; wondered 
at his own rash humanity, and might perhaps have utterly for¬ 
borne the trial, but for a single consideration. His pride was 
concerned, that the deformed Chub should not have occasion to 
laugh at his weakness. Descending, therefore, from his horse, 
lie fastened him to the hanging branch of a neighboring tree, 
and with something of desperate defiance in his manner, reso¬ 
lutely advanced to the silent and forbidding mass of rocks, 
which rose up so sullenly around him. In another moment, and 
he was lost to sight in the gloomy shadow of the entrance- 
passage pointed out to him by the half-witted, but not alto- 
gethei ignorant dwarf. 


362 


QUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

'1 HE ROCK CASTLE OF THE ROBBERS. 

But the preparations of Bunce had been foreseen and provided 
for by those most deeply interested in his progress; and scarcely 
had the worthy tradesman effected his entrance fairly into the 
forbidden territory, when he felt himself grappled from behind. 
He struggled with an energy, due as much to the sudden terror 
as to any exercise of the free will; hut he struggled in vain. 
The arms that were fastened about his own bound them down 
with a grasp of steel; and after a few moments of desperate 
effort, accompanied with one or two exclamations, half-surprise, 
half-expostulation, of “ Hello, friend, what do you mean V’ and 
“I say, now, friend, you’d better have done—” the struggle 
ceased, and he lay supine in the hold of the unseen persons who 
had secured him. 

These persons he could not then discern; the passage was 
cavernously dark, and had evidently been as much the work of 
nature as of art. A handkerchief was fastened about his eyes, 
and he felt himself carried on the shoulders of those who made 
nothing of the burden. After the progress of several minutes, 
in which the anxiety natural to his situation led Bunce into 
frequent exclamations and entreaties, he was set down, the 
bandage was removed from his eyes, and he was once more 
permitted their free exercise. 

To his great wonder, however, nothing but women, of all 
sizes and ages, met his sight. In vain did he look around for. 
the men who brought him. They were no longer to be seen, 
and so silent had been their passage out, that the unfortunate 
pedler was compelled to satisfy himself with the belief that per¬ 
sons of the gentler sex had been in truth his captors. 


THE KOOK CASTLE OP THE ROBBERS. 


858 


Had he, indeed, given up the struggle so easily 1 The thought 
was mortifying enough ; and yet, when he looked around him, 
he grew more satisfied with his own efforts at resistance. He 
had never seen such strongly-built women in his life : scarcely 
one of th§m but could easily have overthrown him, without 
stratagem, in single combat. The faces of many of them were 
familiar to him; but where had he seen them before 1 His 
memory failed him utterly, and he gave himself up to his be¬ 
wilderment. 

He looked around, and the scene was well calculated to affect 
a nervous mind. It was a fit scene for the painter of the super¬ 
natural. The small apartment in which they were, was formed 
in great part from the natural rock; where a fissure presented 
itself, a huge pine-tree, overthrown so as to fill the vacuity, 
completed what nature had left undone; and, bating the one or 
two rude cavities left here and there in the sides—themselves 
so covered as to lie hidden from all without—there was all the 
compactness of a regularly-constructed dwelling. A single and 
small lamp, pendent from a beam that hung over the room, gave 
a feeble light, which, taken in connection with that borrowed 
from without, served only to make visible the dark indistinct of 
the place. With something dramatic in their taste, the old 
women had dressed themselves in sombre habiliments, accord¬ 
ing to the general aspect of all things around them; and, as the 
unfortunate pedler continued to gaze in wonderment, his fear 
grew with every progressive step in his observation. One by 
one, however, the old women commenced stirring, and, as they 
moved, now before and now behind him — his eyes following 
them on every side—he at length discovered, amid the group, 
the small and delicate form of the very being for whom he 
sought. 

There, indeed, were Lucy Munro and her aunt, holding a 
passive character in the strange assembly. This was encoura¬ 
ging ; and Bunce, forgetting his wonder in the satisfaction which 
such a prospect afforded him, endeavored to force his way for¬ 
ward to them, when a salutary twitch of the arm from one of 
the beldam troop, by tumbling him backward upon the floor of 
the cavern, brought him again to a consideration of his predica¬ 
ment. He could not be restrained from speech, however — 


354 


GUY RIVERS. 


though, as he spoke, the old women saluted his face on all hands 
with strokes from brushes of fern, which occasioned him no small 
inconvenience. But he had gone too far now to recede; and, 
in a broken manner—broken as much by his own hurry and 
vehemence as by the interruptions to which he was subjected 
—he contrived to say enough to Lucy of the situation of Colle¬ 
ton, to revive in her an interest of the most painful character. 
She rushed forward, and was about to ask more from the be¬ 
leaguered pedler; but it was not the policy of those having 
both of them in charge to permit such a proceeding. One of 
the stoutest of the old women now came prominently upon the 
scene, and, with a rough voice, which it is not difficult to recog 
nise as that of Munro, commanded the young girl away, and gave 
her in charge to two attendants. But she struggled still to hear, 
and Bunce all the while speaking, she was enabled to gather most 
of the particulars in his narration before her removal was effected. 

The mummery now ceased, and Bunce having been carried 
elsewhere, the maskers resumed their native apparel, having 
thrown aside that which had been put on for a distinct purpose. 
The pedler, in another and more secure department of the rob¬ 
bers’ hiding-place, was solaced with the prospect of a long and - 
dark imprisonment. 

In the meantime, our little friend Chub Williams had been 
made to undergo his own distinct punishment for his share in 
the adventure. No sooner had Bunce been laid by the heels, 
than Livers, who had directed the whole, advanced from the 
shelter of the cave, in company with his lieutenant, Dillon, both 
armed with rifles, and, without saying a word, singling out the 
tree on which Chub had perched himself, took deliberate aim 
at the head^of the unfortunate urchin. He saw the danger in 
an instant, and his first words were characteristic: “ Now don’t 
— don’t, now, I tell you, Mr. Guy—you may hit Chub !” 

“ Come down, then, you rascal!” was the reply, as, with a 
laugh, lowering the weapon, he awaited the descent of the spy. 

“ And now, Bur, what have you to say that I shouldn’t wear 
out a hickory or two upon you ]” 

“ My name ain’t Bur, Mr. Guy; my name is Chub, and I 
don’t like to be called out of my name. Mother always called 
me Chub.” 


THE ROCK CASTLE OF THE ROBBERS. 


355 


“ Well, Chub — since you like it best, though at best a bur — 
what were you doing in that tree ? How dare you spy into my 
dwelling, and send other people there ? Speak, or I’ll skin you 
alive!” 

“ Now, don’t, Mr. Guy ! Don’t, I beg you ! ’Taint right to 
talk so, and I don’t like it!—But is that your dwelling, Mr. 
Guy, in truth ? — you really live in it, all the year round 1 Now, 
you don’t, do you?” 

The outlaw had no fierceness when contemplating the object 
before him. Strange nature ! He seemed to regard the deform¬ 
ities of mind and body, in the outcast under his eyes, as some¬ 
thing kindred. Was there anything like sympathy in such a 
feeling ? or was it rather that perversity of temper which some¬ 
times seems to cast an ennobling feature over violence, and to 
afford here and there, a touch of that moral sunshine which can 
now and then give an almost redeeming expression to the coun¬ 
tenance of vice itself? He contemplated the idiot for a few mo¬ 
ments with a close eye, and a mind evidently busied in thought. 
Laying his hand, at length, on his shoulder, he was about to 
speak, when the deformed started back from the touch as if in hor¬ 
ror— a feeling, indeed, fully visible in every feature of his face. 

“ Now, don’t touch Chub, Mr. Guy ! Mother said you were 
a dark man, and told me to keep clear of you. Don’t touch me 
agin, Mr. Guy; I don’t like it.” 

The outlaw, musingly, spoke to his lieutenant: “ And this is 
education. Who shall doubt its importance? who shall say 
that it does not overthrow and altogether destroy the original 
nature ? The selfish mother of this miserable outcast, fearing 
that he might be won away from his service to her, taught him 
to avoid all other persons, and even those who had treated her 
with kindness were thus described to this poor dependant. To 
him the sympathies of others would have been the greatest 
blessing; yet she so tutored him, that, at her death, he was left 
desolate. You hear his account of me, gathered, as he says, and 
as I doubt not, from her own lips. That account is true, so far 
as my other relationships with mankind are concerned; but not 
true as regards my connection with her. I furnished that old crea¬ 
ture with food when she was starving, and when this boy, sick 
and impotent, could do little for her service. I never uttered a 


356 


GUY RIVERS. 


harsh word in her ears, or treated her unkindly; yet this is the 
character she gives of me—and this, indeed, the character 
which she has given of all others. A feeling of the narrowest 
selfishness has led her deliberately to misrepresent all mankind, 
and has been productive of a more ungracious result, in driving 
one from his species, who, more than any other, stands in need 
of their sympathy and association.” 

While Rivers spoke thus, the idiot listened with an air of the 
most stupid attention. His head fell on one shoulder, and one 
hand partially sustained it. As the former concluded his re¬ 
marks, Chub recovered a posture as nearly erect as possible, 
and remarked, with as much significance as could comport with 
liis general expression— 

“ Chub’s mother was good to Chub, and Mr. Guy mustn’t say 
nothing agin her.” 

“ But, Chub, will you not come and live with me 1 I will 
give you a good rifle — one like this, and you shall travel every¬ 
where with me.” 

“ You will beat Chub when you are angry, and make him 
shoot people with the rifle. I don’t want it. If folks say harm 
to Chub, he can lick ’em with his fists. Chub don’t want to 
live with you.” 

“Well, as you please. But come in and look at my house, 
and see where I live.” 

“ And shall I see the strannger agin ? I can lick him, and I 
told him so. But he called me Chub, and I made friends with 
him.” 

“Yes, you shall see him, and—” 

“And Miss Lucy, too — I want to see Miss Lucy — Chub saw 
her, and she spoke to Chub yesterday.” 

The outlaw promised him all, and after this there was no fur¬ 
ther difficulty. The unconscious idiot scrupled no longer, and 
followed his conductors into—prison. It was necessary, for 
the further safety of the outlaws in their present abode, that 
such should be the case. The secret of their hiding-place was 
in the possession of quite too many; and the subject of deliber¬ 
ation among the leaders was now as to the propriety of its con¬ 
tinued tenure. The country, they felt assured, would soon be 
overrun with the state troops. They had no fears of discovery 


THE ROCK CASTLE OF THE ROBBERS. 357 

from this source, prior to the affair of the massacre of the guard, 
which rendered necessary the secretion of many in their retreat, 
who, before that time, were perfectly unconscious of its exist¬ 
ence. In addition to this, it was now known to the pedler and 
the idiot, neither of whom had any reason for secrecy on the 
subject in the event of their being able to make it public. The 
difficulty, with regard to the two latter, subjected them to no 
small risk of suffering from the ultimate necessities of the rogues, 
and there was a sharp and secret consultation as to the mode of 
disposing of the two captives; but so much blood had been al¬ 
ready spilled, that the sense of the majority revolted at the fur¬ 
ther resort to that degree of violence—particularly, too, when 
it was recollected that they could only hold their citadel for a 
certain and short period of time. It was determined, therefore, 
that so long as they themselves continued in their hiding-place, 
Bunce and Chub should, perforce, continue prisoners. Having 
so determined, and made their arrangements accordingly, the 
two last-made captives were assigned a cell, chosen with refer¬ 
ence to its greater security than the other portions of their hold 
—one sufficiently tenacious of its trust, it would seem, to answer 
well its purpose. 

In the meantime, the sufferings of Lucy Munro were such as 
may well be understood from the character of her feelings, as 
we have heretofore beheld their expression. In her own apart¬ 
ment—her cell, we may style it, for she was in a sort of hon¬ 
orable bondage—she brooded with deep melancholy over the 
narrative given by the pedler. She had no reason to doubt its 
correctness, and, the more she meditated upon it, the more acute 
became her misery. But a day intervened, and the trial of 
Ralph Colleton must take place; and, without her evidence, 
she was well aware there could be no hope of his escape from 
the doom of felony—from the death of shame and physical 
agony. The whole picture grew up before her excited fancy. 
She beheld the assembled crowd— she saw him borne to exe¬ 
cution— and her senses reeled beneath the terrible conjurations 
of her fancy. She threw herself prostrate upon her couch, and 
strove not to think, but in vain. Her mind, growing hourly more 
and more intensely excited, at length almost maddened, and she 
grew conscious herself—the worst of all kinds of consciousness 


358 


GUY RIVERS. 


— tliat her reason was no longer secure in its sovereignty. It 
was with a strong effort of the still-firm will that she strove to 
meditate the best mode of rescuing the victim from the death 
suspended above him; and she succeeded, while deliberating 
on this object, in quieting the more subtle workings of her im¬ 
agination. 

Many were the thoughts which came into her brain in this 
examination. At one time she thought it not impossible to con¬ 
vey a letter, in which her testimony should be carefully set 
down; but the difficulty of procuring a messenger, and the 
doubt that such a statement would prove of any avail, decided 
her to seek for other means. An ordinary mind, and a mode¬ 
rate degree of interest in the fate of the individual, would have 
contented itself with some such step; but such a mind and such 
affections were not those of the high-souled and spirited Lucy. 
She dreaded not personal danger; and to rescue the youth, 
whom she so much idolized, from the doom that threatened 
him, she would have willingly dared to encounter that doom it¬ 
self, in its darkest forms. She determined, therefore, to rely 
chiefly upon herself in all efforts which she should make for the 
purpose in view; and her object, therefore, was to effect a re¬ 
turn to the village in time to appear at the trial. 

Yet how should this be done ? She felt herself to be a cap¬ 
tive; she knew the restraints upon her — and did not doubt that 
all her motions were sedulously observed. How then should she 
proceed? An agent was necessary; and, while deliberating 
with herself upon the difficulty thus assailing her at the outset, 
her ears were drawn to the distinct utterance of sounds, as of 
persons engaged in conversation, from the adjoining section of 
the rock. 

One of the voices appeared familiar, and at length she dis¬ 
tinctly made out her own name in various parts of the dialogue. 
She soon distinguished the nasal tones of the pedler, whose 
prison adjoined her own, separated only by a huge wall oi* 
earth and rock, the rude and jagged sides of which had been 
made complete, where naturally imperfect, fo. the purposes of 
a wall, by the free use of clay, which, postered in huge masses 
into the crevices and every fissure, was no inconsiderable apol¬ 
ogy for the more perfect structures of civilization. 


THE ROCK CASTLE OF THE ,'IOBBERS. 


359 


Satisfied, at length, from what she heard, that the two so con 
fined were friendly, she contrived to make them understand her 
contiguity, by speaking in tones sufficiently low as to he un¬ 
heard beyond the apartment in which they were. In this way 
she was enabled to converse with the pedler, to whom all her 
difficulties were suggested, and to whom she did not hesitate to 
say that she knew that which would not fail to save the life of 
Colleton. 

Bunce was not slow to devise various measures for the further 
promotion of the scheme, none of which, however, served the 
purpose of showing to either party how they should get out., 
and, but for the idiot, it is more than probable, despairing of 
success, they would at length have thrown aside the hope of 
doing anything for the youth as perfectly illusory. 

But Chub came in as a prime auxiliar. From the first mo¬ 
ment in which he heard the gentle tones of Lucy’s voice, he 
had busied himself with his long nails and fingers in removing 
the various masses of clay which had been made to fill up sundry 
crevices of the intervening wall, and had so far succeeded as to 
detach a large square of the rock itself, which, with all possible 
pains and caution, he lifted from the embrasure. This done, he 
could distinguish objects, though dimly, from one apartment in 
the other, and thus introduced the parties to a somewhat nearer 
acquaintance with one another. Having done so much, he re¬ 
posed from his labors, content with a sight of Lucy, on whom 
he continued to gaze with a fixed and stupid admiration. 

He had pursued this work so noiselessly, and the maiden and 
Bunce had been so busily employed in liscussing their several 
plans, that they had not observed the vast, progress which Chub 
had made toward furnishing them witli a better solution of their 
difficulties than any of their own previous cogitations. When 
Bunce saw how much had been done in one quarter, he applied 
himself resolutely to similar experiments on the opposite wall: 
and had the satisfaction of discovering that, as a dungeon, the 
dwelling in which they were required to remain was sadly defi¬ 
cient in some few of the requisites of security. With the aid of a 
small pick of iron, which Lucy handed him from her cell, he 
pierced the outer wall in several places, in which the clay had 
been required to do the offices of the rock, and had the satis- 


360 


GUY RIVERS. 


faction of perceiving, from the sudden influx of light in the 
apartment, succeeding his application of the instrument, that, 
with a small labor and in little time, they should be enabled to 
effect their escape, at least into the free air, and under the more 
genial vault of heaven. 

Having made this discovery, it was determined that nothing 
more should be done until night, and having filled up the aper¬ 
tures which they had made, with one thing or another, they pro¬ 
ceeded to consult, with more deliberate composure, on the future 
progress. It was arranged that the night should be permitted 
to set in fairly—that Lucy should retire early, having first 
taken care that Munro and her aunt, with whom she more ex¬ 
clusively consorted — Rivers having kept very much out of 
sight since her removal — should see her at the evening meal, 
without any departure from her usual habits. Bunce undertook 
to officiate as guide, and as Chub expressed himself willing to 
do whatever Miss Lucy should tell him, it was arranged that he 
should remain, occasionally making himself heard in his cell, as 
if in conversation, for as long a period after their departure as 
might be thought necessary to put them sufficiently in advance 
of pursuit — a requisition to which Chub readily gave his con¬ 
sent. He was the only one of the party who appeared to re¬ 
gard the whole matter with comparative indifference. He 
knew that a man was in danger of his life—he felt that he 
himself was in prison, and he said he would rather be out 
among the pine-trees — but there was no rush of feeling, such 
as troubled the heart of the young girl, whose spirit, clothing 
itself in all the noblest habiliments of humanity, lifted her up 
into the choicest superiority of character—nor had the dwarf 
that anxiety to do a service to his fellow, which made the ped- 
ler throw aside some of his more worldly characteristics—he 
did simply as he was bid, and had no further care. 

Miss Lucy, he said, talked sweetly, like his mother, and Chub 
would do for Miss Lucy anything that she asked him. The » 
principle of his government was simple, and having chosen a 
sovereign, he did not withhold his obedience. Thus stood the 
preparations of the three prisoners, when darkness—long- 
looked-for, and hailed with trembling emotions—at length 
came down over the silent homestead of the outlaws. 


ESCAPE. 


361 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

ESCAPE. 

The night gathered apace, and the usual hour of repose had 
come. Lucy retired to her apartment with a trembling heart, 
but a courageous spirit, full of a noble determination to perse¬ 
vere in her project. Though full of fear, she never for a mo¬ 
ment thought of retreat from the decision which she had made. 
Her character afforded an admirable model for the not unfre¬ 
quent union that we find in woman, of shrinking delicacy with 
manly and efficient firmness. 

Munro and Rivers, having first been assured that all was 
quiet, by a ramble which they took around their hiding-place, 
returned to the little chamber of the latter, such as we have de¬ 
scribed it in a previous portion of our narrative, and proceeded 
to the further discussion of their plans. The mind of the land¬ 
lord was very ill at ease. He had arrived at that time of life 
when repose and a fixed habitation became necessary; and 
when, whatever may have been the habits of earlier manhood, 
the mind ceases to crave the excitements of adventure, and fore¬ 
goes, or would fain forego, all its roving characteristics. To 
this state of feeling had he come, and the circumstances which 
now denied him the fruition of that prospect of repose which he 
had been promising himself so long, were regarded with no 
little restlessness and impatience. At the moment, the col¬ 
leagues could make no positive arrangements for the future. 
Munro was loth to give up the property which, in one way or 
other, he had acquired in the neighborhood, and which it was 
impossible for him to remove to any other region; and, strange 
to say, a strong feeling of inhabitiveness—the love of home — 
if home he could be thought to have anywhere—might almost 
be considered a passion with his less scrupulous companion. 

16 


362 


GUY RIVERS. 


Thus situated, they lingered on in the hope that the military 
would soon be withdrawn from the neighborhood, as it could 
only be maintained at great expense by the state; and then, as 
the country was but nominally settled, and so sparsely as to 
scarcely merit any consideration, they felt assured that they 
might readily return to their old, or any practices, and without 
any further apprehension. The necessity, however, which 
made them thus deliberate, had the effect, at the same time, of 
impressing them with a gloomy spirit, not common to either of 
them. 

“ Let us see, Munro,” said the more desperate ruffian; “ there 
is, after all, less to apprehend than we first thought. In a week, 
and the court will be over; in another week, and the guard will 
be withdrawn; and for this period only will it be necessary that 
we should keep dark. I think we are now perfectly safe where 
we are. The only persons who know of our retreat, and might 
be troublesome, are safe in our possession. They will hardly 
escape until we let them, and before we do so we shall first see 
that they can give us no further necessity for caution. Of our 
own party, none are permitted to know the secrets of our hiding- 
place, but those in whom we may trust confidently. I have ta¬ 
ken care to provide for the doubtful at some distance in the ad¬ 
joining woods, exaggerating so greatly the danger of exposure; 
that they will hardly venture to be seen under any circumstan¬ 
ces by anybody. Once let these two weeks go over, and I have 
no fears; we shall have no difficulties then.” 

“And what’s to be done with the pedler and the fool ? I say, 
Guy, there must be no more blood — 1 will not agree to it. The 
fact is, I feel more and more dismal every day since that poor 
fellow’s death ; and now that the youngster’s taken, the thought 
is like fire in my brain, which tells me he may suffer for our 
crime.” 

“ Why, you are grown parson. Would you go and save him, 
by giving up the true criminal ] I shall look for it after this, » 
and consider myself no longer in safety. If you go on in this 
manner, I shall begin to meditate an )ff-hand journey to the 
Mississippi.” 

“Ay, and the sooner we all go the better—though, to be 
plain, Guy, let this affair once blow over, and I care not to go 


ESCAPE. 


Sf>3 

with you any longer. We must then cut loose tbr ever, I arn 
not a good man, I know — anything hut that; but you have 
carried me on, step by step, until I am what I am afraid to 
name to myself. You found me a rogue—you have made me 
a—” 

“ Why do you hesitate ? Speak it out, Munro; it is a large 
step gained toward reform when we learn to name truly our of 
fences to ourselves.” 

“ I dare not. The thought is sufficiently horrible without the 
thing. I hear some devil whispering it too frequently in my ears, 
to venture upon its utterance myself. But you — how you can 
live without feeling it, after your experience, which has been 
so much more dreadful than mine, I know not.” 

“ I do feel it, Munro, but have long since ceased to fear it. 
The reiteration takes away the terror which is due rather to 
the novelty than to the offence. But when I began, I felt it. 
The first sleep I had after the affair of Jessup was full of tor¬ 
tures. The old man, I thought, lay beside me in my bed; his 
blood ran under me, and clotted around me, and fastened me 
there, while his gashed face kept peering into mine, and his 
eyes danced over me with the fierce light of a threatening 
comet. The dream nearly drove me mad, and mad I should 
have been had I gone to my prayers. I knew that, and chose 
a different course for relief.” 

“ What was that ?” 

“ I sought for another victim as soon after as I conveniently 
could. The one spectre superseded the other, until all vanish¬ 
ed. They never trouble me now, though sometimes, in my 
waking moments, I have met them on the roadside, glaring at 
me from bush or tree, until I shouted at them fiercely, and 
then they were gone. These are my terrors, and they do 
sometimes unman me.” 

“ They would do more with me ; they would destroy me on 
the spot. But, let us have no more of this. Let us rather see 
if we can not do something towards making our visions more 
agreeable. Do you persevere in the sacrifice of this youngster ? 
Must he die ?” 

“ Am I a child, Walter Munro, that you ask me such a ques¬ 
tion ? Must I again tell over the accursed story of my defeat 


364 


GUY RIVERS. 


and of his success? Must I speak of my thousand defeats—of 
my overthrown pretensions—my blasted hopes, where I had 
set my affections — upon which every feeling of my heart had 
been placed ? Must I go over a story so full of pain and hu¬ 
miliation—must I describe my loss, in again placing before 
your eyes a portraiture like this? Look, man, look — and 
read my answer in the smile, which, denying me, teaches me, 
in this case, to arm myself with a denial as immutable as hers.” 

He placed before his companion the miniature of Edith, 
which he took from his bosom, where he seemed carefully to 
treasure it. He was again the envenomed and the excited sav¬ 
age which we have elsewhere seen him, and in which mood 
Munro knew well that nothing could be done with him in the 
shape of argument or entreaty. He went on : — 

“ Ask me no questions, Munro, so idle, so perfectly unneces¬ 
sary as this. Fortune has done handsomely here. He falls 
through me , yet falls by the common hangman. What a double 
blow is this to both of them. I have been striving to imagine 
their feelings, and such a repast as that effort has procured me 
— I would not exchange it—no — not for worlds—for nothing 
less, Munro, than my restoration back to that society—to that 
place in society, from which my fierce passions, and your cruel 
promptings, and the wrongs of society itself, have for ever ex¬ 
iled me.” 

“ And would you return, if you could do so ? 

“To-morrow — to-night — this instant. I am sanguinary, 
Munro—revengeful—fierce — all that is bad, because I am 
not permitted to be better. My pride, my strong feelings and 
deeply absorbing mood—these have no other field for exercise. 
The love of home, the high ambition, which, had society done 
me common justice, and had not, in enslaving itself, dishonored 
and defrauded me—would, under other circumstances, have 
made me a patriot. My pride is even now to command the 
admiration of men—I never sought their love. Their appro¬ 
bation would have made me fearless and powerful in tl: eir de¬ 
fence and for their rights—their injustice makes me their ene¬ 
my. My passions, unprovoked and unexaggerated by mortify¬ 
ing repulses, would have only been a warm and stimulating 
influence, perpetually working in their service — but, pressed 


ESCAPE. 


366 


upon and irritated as ti.ey have been they grew into so many 
wild beasts, and preyed upon the cruel or the careless keepers, 
whose gentle treatment and constant attention had tamed them 
into obedient servants. Yet, would I could, even now, return 
to that condition in which there might be hope. The true 
spectre of the criminal — such as I am—the criminal chiefly 
from the crimes and injustice of society, not forgetting the edu¬ 
cation of my boyhood, which grew out of the same crimes, and 
whose most dreadful lesson is selfishness — is despair! The 
black waters once past, the blacker hills rise between, and 
there is no return to those regions of hope, which, once lost, 
are lost for ever. This is the true punishment—the worst 
punishment which man inflicts upon his fellow — the felony of 
public opinion. The curse of society is no unfit illustration of 
that ban which its faith holds forth as the penal doom of the 
future. There is no return !” 

The dialogue, mixed up thus, throughout, with the utterance 
of opinions on the part of the outlaw, many of which were true 
or founded in truth, yet coupled with many false deductions— 
was devoted, for some little while longer, to the discussion of 
their various necessities and plans for the future. The night 
had considerably advanced in this way, when, of a sudden, 
their ears were assailed with an eldritch screech, like that of 
the owl, issuing from one of the several cells around them. 

The quick sense of Rivers immediately discerned the voice 
of the idiot, and without hesitation he proceeded to that divis¬ 
ion of the rock which contained the two prisoners. To each 
of these apartments had been assigned a sentinel, or watch, 
whose own place of abode—while covered completely and 
from sight, and in all respects furnishing a dwelling, though 
rather a confined one for himself— enabled him to attend to the 
duty assigned him without himself being seen. The night had 
been fairly set in, when Bunce, with the aid of Chub Williams, 
with all due caution proceeded to his task, and with so much 
success, that, in the course of a couple of hours, they had suc¬ 
ceeded, not only in making a fair outlet for themselves, but for 
Lucy Munro too. 

The watchman, in the meantime, holding his duty as merely 
nominal, gave himself as little trouble a6 possible; and believ- 


366 


GUY RIVERS. 


mg all things quiet, had, after a little while, insinuated himself 
int-o the good graces of as attractive a slumber as may usually 
be won in the warm summer season in the south, by one to 
whom a nightwatch is a peculiarly ungracious exercise. Before 
this conclusion, however, he looked forth every now and then, 
and deceived by the natural stillness of earth and sky, he 
committed the further care of the hours, somewhat in anticipation 
of the time, to the successor who was to relieve him on the watch. 

Without being conscious of this decision in their favor, and 
ignorant entirely of the sentinel himself, the pedler fortunately 
chose this period for his own departure with the young lady 
whom he was to escort; and who, with probably far less fear 
than her gallant, did not scruple, for a single instant, to go 
forth under his guidance. Chub took his instructions from the 
lips of Lucy, and promised the most implicit obedience. 

They had scarcely been well gone when the sentinels were 
changed, and one something more tenacious of discipline, or 
something less drowsy than his predecessor, took his place. 
After muttering at intervals, as directed, for the space of an 
hour, probably, from the time at which his companion had de¬ 
parted, Chub thought it only prudent to sally forth too. Ac¬ 
cordingly, ascending to the break in the wall, through which 
his companion had made his way, the urchin emerged from the 
cavern at the unlucky moment, when, at some ten or fifteen 
paces in front of him, the sentinel came forth from his niche to 
inspect the order of his watch. Chub saw his adversary first, 
and his first impulse originated the scream which drew the at¬ 
tention of Rivers, as already narrated. The outlaw rushed 
quickly to the scene of difficulty, and before the sentinel had 
well recovered from the astonishment occasioned by the singu¬ 
larly sudden appearance and wild screech of the urchin. 

“ Why, what is this, Briggs; what see you 1” was the hasty 
inquiry of Rivers. 

“ There, sir, there,” exclaimed the watch, still half bewilder¬ 
ed, and pointing to the edge of the hill, where, in a condition 
seemingly of equal incertitude with himself, stood the imbecile. 

“Seize upon him—take him at once—let him not escape 
you!” were the hasty orders of the outlaw. Briggs set forward, 
but hi? approach had the effect of giving determination also to 


ESCAPE. 


367 


Cliub; who, just as the pursuer thought himself sure of his 
captive, and was indeed indirectly upon him, doubled himself 
up, as it were into a complete ball, and without effort rolled 
headlong down the hill; gathering upon his feet as he attained 
the level, seemingly unhurt, and with all the agility of the 
monkey. 

“ Shall I shoot, sir ?” was the inquiry of Briggs, as the urchin 
stood off, laughing wildly at his good fortune. 

“ Now, don’t”—was the cry—“ Now, don’t”—was the excla¬ 
mation of Chub himself, who, however, trusting nothing to the 
effect of his entreaty, ran vigorously on his way. 

“ Yes, shoot him down,” was the sudden exclamation of 
Munro; but Rivers struck the poised weapon upward in the 
hands of the sentinel, to the astonishment, not less of him than 
of the landlord. 

“No—let him live, Munro. Let him live. Such as he 
should be spared. Is he not alone — without fellowship — 
scorned—an outcast—without sympathy—like myself. Let 
him live, let him live !” 

The word of mercy from his lips utterly confounded his com¬ 
panion. But, remembering that Rivers was a monster of con¬ 
tradictions, Munro turned away, and gave directions to see after 
the other prisoners. 

A few moments sufficed for this, and the panic was universal 
among the inmates of the rock. The secret was now lost, un¬ 
less immediate pursuit could avail in the recovery of the fugi¬ 
tives. This pursuit was immediately undertaken, and both 
Rivers and Munro, taking different directions, and dispersing 
their whole force about the forest, set off on the search. 

Apprehensive of pursuit, the policy of Bunce, to whom Lucy 
gave up the entire direction of their flight, was determined upon 
with not a little judgment. Assured that his pursuers would 
search chiefly on the direct route between their abode and the 
village, to which they would necessarily surmise the flight was 
directed, he boldly determined upon a course, picked sinuously 
out, obliquing largely from the true direction, which, while it 
would materially lengthen the distance, would at least secure 
them, he thought, from the danger of contact with the scouring 
party. 


368 


GUY RIVERS. 


By no means ignorant of the country, in and about which he 
had frequently travelled in the pursuit of trade, he contrived, 
in this way, completely to mislead the pursuers; and the morn¬ 
ing found them still some distance from the village, but in a 
direction affording few chances of interruption in their contem¬ 
plated approach to it. 

Lucy was dreadfully fatigued, and a frequent sense of weari¬ 
ness almost persuaded her to lay down life itself in utter ex¬ 
haustion : but the encouraging words of the pedler, and the 
thought of his peril, for whose safety—though herself hopeless 
of all besides—she would willingly peril all, restored her, and 
invigorated her to renewed effort. 

At the dawn of day they approached a small farmhouse, 
some of the inmates of which happened to know Lucy; and, 
though they looked somewhat askant at her companion, and 
wondered not a little at the circumstance of her travelling at 
such a time of night, yet, as she was generally well respected, 
their surmises and scruples were permitted to sleep; and, after 
a little difficulty, they were persuaded to lend her the family 
pony and side-saddle, with the view to the completion of her 
journey. After taking some slight refreshment, she hurried on; 
Bunce, keeping the road afoot, alongside, with all the patient 
docility of a squire of the middle ages; and to the great satis¬ 
faction of all parties, they arrived in sight of the village just 
as Counsellor Pippin, learned in the law, was disputing with 
the state attorney upon the non-admissibility of certain points 
of testimony, which it was the policy of the former to exclude. 


DOOM 


869 


CHAPTER XXXIII 

DOOM. 

The village of Chestatee was crowded with visiters of all 
descriptions. Judges and lawyers, soldiers and citizens and 
farmers—all classes were duly represented, and a more whole¬ 
some and subordinate disposition in that quarter, may be in¬ 
ferred as duly resulting from the crowd. Curiosity brought 
many to the spot from portions of country twenty, thirty, and 
even forty miles off—for, usually well provided with good 
horses, the southron tinds a difference of ten or twenty miles no 
great matter. 

Such had been the reputation of the region here spoken of, 
not less for its large mineral wealth than for the ferocious char¬ 
acter of those in its neighborhood, that numbers, who would not 
otherwise have adventured, now gladly took advantage of the 
great excitement, and the presence of so many, to examine a 
section of country of which they had heard so much. There 
came the planter, of rather more wealth than his neighbors, 
solicitous for some excitement and novelty to keep himself from 
utter stagnation. There came the farmer, discontented with his 
present abiding-place, and in search of a new spot of more 
promise, in which to drive stakes and do better. The lawyer, 
from a neighboring county, in search of a cause; the creditor 
in search of his runaway debtor—the judge and the jury also 
adding something, not less to the number than the respectability 
of the throng. 

The grand-jury had found several bills, and most of them for 
the more aggravated offences in the estimation of the law. 
Rivers, Munro, Blundell, Forrester, were all severally and 
collectively included in their inquiries; but as none of the 
parties were to be found for the present at least, as one of them 

16 * 


>70 


GUY RIVERS. 


had been removed to another and higher jurisdiction, the case 
of most importance left for trial was that which charged Colle¬ 
ton with Forrester’s murder. 

There was no occasion for delay; and, in gloomy and half- 
desponding mood, though still erect and unshrinking to the eye 
of the beholder, Ralph refused the privilege of a traverse, and 
instructed Pippin to go on with the case. The lawyer himself 
had not the slightest objection to this procedure, for, not to he 
harsh in our estimate of his humanities, there is no reason to 
believe that he regarded for a single instant the value of his 
client’s life, but as its preservation was to confer credit upon 
his capacity as his legal friend and adviser. The issue was 
consequently made up without delay—the indictment was read 
—the prisoner put himself upon Grod and the country, accord¬ 
ing to the usual forms, and the case proceeded. 

The general impression of the spectators was decidedly in 
favor of the accused. His youth—the noble bearing—the 
ease, the unobtrusive confidence—the gentle expression, pliant 
and, though sad, yet entirely free from anything like desponding 
weakness—all told in his favor. He was a fine specimen of 
the southern gentleman—the true nobleman of that region, 
whose pride of character is never ostentatiously displayed and 
is only to he felt in the influence which it invariably exercises 
over all with whom it may have contact or connection. Though 
firm in every expression, and manly in every movement, there 
was nothing in the habit and appearance of Ralph, which, to 
the eye of those around, savored of the murderer. There was 
nothing ruffianly or insincere. But, as the testimony proceeded 
—when the degree of intimacy was shown which had existed 
between himself and the murdered man — when they heard that 
Forrester had brought him wounded and fainting to his home— 
had attended him — had offered even to fight for him with 
Rivers; when all these facts were developed, in connection 
with the sudden flight of the person so befriended — on the 
same night with him who had befriended him—he having a 
knowledge of the proposed departure of the latter — and with 
the finding of the bloody dagger marked with the youth’s ini¬ 
tials—the feeling of sympathy very perceptibly underwent a 
change. The people, proverbially fickle, and, in the present 


DOOM. 


371 


instance justifiably so, veered round to the opposite extreme of 
opinion, and a confused buzz around, sometimes made sufficiently 
audible to all senses, indicated the unfavorable character of the 
change. The witnesses were closely examined, and the story 
was complete and admirably coherent. The presumptions, as 
they were coupled together, were conclusive; and, when it was 
found that not a solitary witness came forward even to say that 
the accused was a man of character and good connections — a 
circumstance which could not materially affect the testimony as 
it stood, but which, wanting, gave it additional force — the un- 
happy youth, himself, felt that all was over. 

A burning flush, succeeded by a deathlike paleness, came 
over his face for a moment—construed by those around into a 
consciousness of guilt; for, where the prejudices of men become 
active, all appearances of change, which go not to affect the 
very foundation of the bias, are only additional proofs of what 
they have before believed. He rested his head upon his hands 
in deep but momentary agony. What were his feelings then 1 
With warm, pure emotions ; with a pride only limited by a true 
sense of propriety; with an ambition whose eye was sunward 
ever; with affections which rendered life doubly desirable, and 
which made love a high and holy aspiration : with these several 
and predominating feelings struggling in his soul, to be told of 
such a doom; to be stricken from the respect of his fellows; to 
forfeit life, and love, and reputation ; to undergo the punishment 
of the malefactor, and to live in memory only as a felon — un¬ 
grateful, foolish, fiendish — a creature of dishonest passions, and 
mad and merciless in their exercise! 

The tide of thought which bore to his consciousness all these 
harrowing convictions, was sudden as the wing of the lightning, 
and nearly shattered, in that single instant, the towering man¬ 
hood whose high Teachings had attracted it. But the pride 
consequent to his education, and the society in which lie had 
lived, came to his relief; and, after the first dreadful agony of 
soul, he again stood erect, and listened, seemingly unmoved, to 
the defences set up by his counsel. 

But how idle, even to his mind, desirous as he must have 
been of every species of defence, were all the vainglorious 
mouthings *f the pettifogger! He soon discovered that the 


372 


GUY RIVERS. 


ambition of Pippin chiefly consisted in the utterance of his 
speech. He saw, too, in a little while, that the nonsense of the 
lawyer had not even the solitary merit — if such it be — of being 
extemporaneous; and in the slow and monotonous delivery of 
a long string of stale truisms, not bearing any analogy to the 
case in hand, he perceived the dull elaborations of the closet. 

But such was not the estimate of the lawyer himsdlf. He 
knew what he was about; and having satisfied himself that the 
case was utterly hopeless, he was only solicitous that the peo¬ 
ple should see that he could still make a speech. He well 
knew that his auditory, perfectly assured with himself of the 
hopelessness of the defence, would give him the credit of having 
made the most of his materials, and this was all he wanted. In 
the course of his exhortations, however, he was unfortunate 
enough to make an admission for his client which was, of itself, 
fatal; and his argument thence became unnecessary. He ad¬ 
mitted that the circumstances sufficiently established the charge 
of killing, but proceeded, however, to certain liberal assump¬ 
tions, without any ground whatever, of provocation on the part 
of Forrester, which made his murder only matter of self-defence 
on the side of the accused, whose crime therefore became justi¬ 
fiable : but Ralph, who had for some time been listening with 
manifest impatience to sundry other misrepresentations, not 
equally evil with this, but almost equally annoying, now rose 
and interrupted him; and, though the proceeding was something 
informal, proceeded to correct the statement. 

“ No one, may it please your honor, and you, gentlemen, now 
presiding over my fate, can be more conscious than myself, from 
the nature of the evidence given in this case, of the utter hope¬ 
lessness of any defence which may be offered on my behalf. 
But, while recognising, in their fullest force, the strong circum¬ 
stantial proofs of crime which you have heard, I may be permit¬ 
ted to deny for myself what my counsel has been pleased to 
admit for me. To say that I have not been guilty of this crime, 
is only to repeat that which was said when I threw myself upon 
the justice of the country. I denied any knowledge of it then 
— I deny any knowledge of, or participation in it, now. I am 
not guilty of this killing, whether with or without justification. 
The blood of the unfortunate man Forrester is not upon my 


doom. 373 

hands; and, whatever may be your decree this day, of this sweet 
consciousness nothing can deprive me. 

“ I consider, may it please your honor, that my counsel, hav¬ 
ing virtually abandoned my cause, I have the right to go on 
with it myself —” 

But Pippin, who had been dreadfully impatient heretofore, 
started forward with evident alarm. 

“ Oh, no—no, your honor — my client — Mr. Colleton—how 
can you think such a thing? I have not, your honor, aban¬ 
doned the case. On the contrary, your honor will remember 
that it was while actually proceeding with the case that I was 
interrupted.” 

The youth, with a singular degree of composure, replied : — 

“ Your honor will readily understand me, though the gentle¬ 
man of the bar does not. I conceive him not only to have aban¬ 
doned the case, your honor, but actually to have joined hand 
and hand with the prosecuting counsel. It is true, sir, that he 
still calls himself my counsel — and still, under that name, pre¬ 
sumes to harangue, as he alleges, in my behalf; but, when he 
violates the truth, not less than my instructions—when he de¬ 
clares all that is alleged against me in that paper to be true , all 
of which I declare to be false —when he admits me to be guilty 
of a crime of which I am not guilty—I say that he has not 
only abandoned my case, but that he has betrayed the trust 
reposed in him. What, your honor, must the jury infer from 
the confession which he has just made? — what, but that in my 
conference with him I have made the same confession ? It be¬ 
comes necessary, therefore, may it please your honor, not only 
that I take from him, thus openly, the power which I confided 
to him, but that I call upon your honor to demand from him, 
upon oath, whether such an admission was ever made to him by 
me. I know that my own words will avail me nothing here — 
I also know why they should not—but I am surely entitled to 
require that he should speak out, as to the truth, when his mis¬ 
representations are to make weight against me in future. His 
oath, that 1 made no such confession to him, will avail nothing 
for my defence, but will avail greatly with those who, from 
present appearances, are likely to condemn me. I call upon 
him, may it please your honor, as matter of right, that he should 


3T4 


GUY RIVERS. 


be sworn to this particular. This, your honor will perceive, if 
my assertion be true, is the smallest justice which he can do 
me; beyond this I will ask and suggest nothing—leaving it to 
your own mind how far the license of his profession should be 
permitted to one who thus not only abandons, but betrays and 
misrepresents his client.” 

The youth was silent, and Pippin rose to speak in his defence. 
Without being sworn, he admitted freely that such a confession 
had not been made, but that he had inferred the killing from 
the nature of the testimony, which he thought conclusive on the 
point; that his object had been to suggest a probable difficulty 
between the parties, in which he would have shown Forrester 
as the aggressor. He bungled on for some time longer in this 
manner, but, as he digressed again into the defence of the ac¬ 
cused, Ralph again begged to interrupt him. 

“ I think it important, may it please your honor, that the 
gentleman should be sworn as to the simple fact which he has 
uttered. I want it on record , that, at some future day, the few 
who have any interest in my fate should feel no mortifying 
doubts of my innocence when reminded of the occurrence— 
which this strange admission, improperly circulated, might oth¬ 
erwise occasion. Let him swear, your honor, to the fact: this, 
I think, I may require.” 

After a few moments of deliberation, his honor decided that 
the demand was one of right, strictly due, not merely to the 
prisoner and to the abstract merits of the case, but also to the 
necessity which such an event clearly occasioned, of establishing 
certain governing principles for restraining those holding situa¬ 
tions so responsible, who should so far wilfully betray their 
trusts. The lawyer was made to go through the humiliating 
process, and then subjected to a sharp reprimand from the 
judge; who, indeed, might have well gone further, in actually 
striking his name from the rolls of court. 

It was just after this interesting period in the history of the 
trial—and when Pippin, who could not be made to give up the 
case, as Ralph had required, was endeavoring to combat with 
the attorney of the state some incidental points of doctrine, and 
to resist their application to \ ertain parts of the previously, 
recorded testimony—that our heroine, Lucy Munro, attended 


doom. 375 

by her trusty squire, Bunce, made her appearance in the court¬ 
house. 

She entered the hall more dead than alive. The fire was no 
longer in her eye — a thick haze had overspread its usually 
rich and lustrous expression; her form trembled with the emo¬ 
tion—the strong and struggling emotion of her soul; and fa¬ 
tigue had done much toward the general enervation of her per¬ 
son. The cheek was pale with the innate consciousness; the 
lips were blanched, and slightly parted, as if wanting in the 
muscular exercise which could bring them together. She tot¬ 
tered forward to the stand upon which the witnesses were usu¬ 
ally assembled, and to which her course had been directed, and 
for a few moments after her appearance in the courtroom her 
progress had been as one stunned by a sudden and severe blow. 

But, when roused by the confused hum of human voices 
around her, she ventured to look up, and her eye, as if by in¬ 
stinct, turned upon the dark box assigned for the accused —she 
again saw the form, in her mind and eye, of almost faultless 
mould and excellence—then there was no more weakness, no 
more struggle. Her eye kindled, the color rushed into her cheeks, 
a sudden spirit reinvigorated her frame; and, with clasped 
hands, she boldly ascended the small steps which led to the 
stand from which her evidence was to be given, and declared 
her ability, in low tones, almost unheard but by the judge, to 
furnish matter of interest and importance to the defence. Some 
little demur as to the formality of such a proceeding, after the 
evidence had been fairly closed, took place between the coun¬ 
sel ; but, fortunately for justice, the judge was too wise and too 
good a man to limit the course of truth to prescribed rules, 
which could not be affected by a departure, in the present in¬ 
stance, from their restraints. The objection was overruled, and 
the bold but trembling girl was called upon for her testimony. 

A new hope had been breathed into the bosoms of the par¬ 
ties most concerned, on the appearance of this interruption to 
the headlong and impelling force of the circumstances so fatally 
arrayed against the prisoner. The pedler was overjoyed, and 
concluded that the danger was now safely over. The youth 
himself felt his spirit much lighter in his bosom, although he 
himself knew not the extent of that testimony in his favor which 


376 


GUY RIVERS. 


Lucy was enabled to give. He only knew that she could ac¬ 
count for his sudden flight on the night of the murder, leading 
to a fair presumption that he had not premeditated such an act ; 
and knew not that it was in her power to overthrow the only 
fact, among the circumstances arrayed against him, by which 
they had been so connected as to make out his supposed guilt. 

Sanguine, herself, that the power was in her to effect the 
safety of the accused, Lucy had not for a moment considered 
the effect upon others, more nearly connected with her than the 
youth, of the development which she was prepared to make. 
These considerations were yet to come. 

The oath was administered; she began her narration, but at 
the very outset, the difficulties of her situation beset her. How 
was she to save the man she loved ? How, but by showing the 
guilt of her uncle ? How was she to prove that the dirk of the 
youth was not in his possession at the time of the murder ? By 
showing that, just before that time, it was in the possession of 
Munro, who was setting forth for the express purpose of mur¬ 
dering the very man, now accused and held guilty of the same 
crime. The fearful gathering of thoughts and images, thus, 
without preparation, working in her mind, again destroyed the 
equilibrium by which her truer senses would have enforced her 
determination to proceed. Her head swam, her words were 
confused and incoherent, and perpetually contradictory. The 
hope which her presence had inspired as suddenly departed; 
and pity and doubt were the prevailing sentiments of the spec¬ 
tators. 

After several ineffectual efforts to proceed, she all at once 
seemed informed of the opinions around her, and gathering new 
courage from the dreadful thought now forcing itself upon her 
mind, that what she had said had done nothing toward her ob¬ 
ject, she exclaimed impetuously, advancing to the judge, and 
speaking alternately from him to the jury and the counsel — 

“ He is not guilty of this crime, believe me. I may not say 
what I know—I can not—you would not expect me to reveal 
it. It would involve others whom I dare not name. I must 
not say that —but, believe me, Mr. Colleton is not guilty—he 
did not commit the murder — it was somebody else — T know, J 
will swear, he had no hand in the matter.” 


DOOM. 


37'i 

“Very well, my young lady, I have no doubt you think, and 
honestly believe, all that you say; but what reasons have you 
for this bold assertion in the teeth of all the testimony which 
has already been given ? You must not be surprised, if we are 
slow in believing what you tell us, until you can show upon 
what grounds you make your statement. How know you that 
the prisoner did not commit this crime ? Do you know who 
did ? Can you reveal any facts for our knowledge ? This is 
what you must do. Do not be terrified—speak freely — officer! 
a chair for the lady—tell us all that you know — keep nothing- 
back—remember, you are sworn to speak the truth — the whole 
truth.” 

The judge spoke kindly and encouragingly, while, with con¬ 
siderable emphasis, he insisted upon a full statement of all she 
knew. But the distress of the poor girl increased with every 
moment of thought, which warned her of the predicament in 
which such a statement must necessarily involve her uncle. 

“ Oh, how can I speak all this ? How can I tell that which 
must destroy him—” 

“Him? — Of whom do you speak, lady? Who is he l” in¬ 
quired the attorney of the state. 

“He — who? — Oh, no, I can say nothing. I can tell you 
nothing. I know nothing but that Mr. Colleton 4s not guilty. 
He struck no blow at Forrester. I am sure of it—some other 
hand—some other person. How can you believe that he would 
do so ?” 

There was no such charitable thought for him, however, in 
the minds of those who heard — as how should there be? A 
whispering dialogue now took place between the judge and the 
counsel, in which, while they evidently looked upon her as little 
better than demented with her love for the accused, they still 
appeared to hold it due to justice, not less than to humanity, to 
obtain from her every particular of testimony bearing on the 
case, which, by possibility, she might really have in her posses¬ 
sion. Not that they really believed that she knew anything 
which might avail the prisoner. Regarding her as individual¬ 
ly and warmly interested in his life, they looked upon her ap¬ 
pearance, and the evidence which she tendered—if so it might 
be styled—as solely intended to provoke sympathy, gain time; 


378 


GUY RIVERS. 


or, possibly, as the mere ebullition of feelings so deeply excited 
as to have utterly passed the bounds of all restraining reason. 
The judge., who was a good, not less than a sensible man, under¬ 
took, in concluding this conference, to pursue the examination 
himself, with the view to bringing out such portions of her in¬ 
formation as delicacy or some other more influential motive 
might persuade her to conceal. 

“You are sure, Miss Munro, of the innocence of the prisoner 
so sure that you are willing to swear to it. Such is your con¬ 
viction, at least; for, unless you saw the blow given by another 
hand, or could prove Mr. Colleton to have been elsewhere at the 
time of the murder, of course you could not, of a certainty, swear 
to any such fact. You are not now to say whether you believe 
him capable of such an act or not. You are to say whether you 
know of any circumstances which shall acquit him of the charge, 
or furnish a plausible reason, why others, not less than yourself, 
should have a like reason with yourself to believe him innocent. 
Can you do this, Miss Munro ? Can you show anything, in this 
chain of circumstances, against him, which, of your own knowl¬ 
edge, you can say to be untrue 1 Speak out, young lady, and 
rely upon every indulgence from the court.” 

Here the judge recapitulated all the evidence which had been 
furnished against the prisoner. The maiden listened with close 
attention, and the difficulties of her situation became more and 
more obvious. Finding her slow to answer, though her looks 
were certainly full of meaning, the presiding officer took an¬ 
other course for the object which he had in view. He now 
proceeded to her examination in the following form :— 

“You know the prisoner?” 

“I do.” 

“ You knew the murdered man ?” 

‘ Perfectly.” 

“Were they frequently together since the appearance of the 
prisoner in these regions V' 

“ Frequently.” 

“ At the house in which you dwell V’ 

“ Yes.” 

“ Were they together on the day preceding the night of the 
murder ]” 


DOOM. 


379 


“They were—throughout the better portion of it.” 

“Did they separate at your place of residence, and what 
was the employment of the prisoner subsequently on the same 
day ?” 

“ They did separate while at our house, Mr. Colleton retiring 
at an early hour of the evening to his chamber.” 

“ So far, Miss Munro, your answers correspond directly with 
the evidence, and now come the important portions.' You will 
answer briefly and distinctly. After that, did you see anything 
more of the prisoner, and know you of his departure from the 
house—the hour of the night—the occasion of liis going—and 
the circumstances attending it ?” 

These questions were, indeed, all important to the female 
delicacy of the maiden, as well as to the prisoner, and as her 
eye sunk in confusion, and as her cheek paled and kindled with 
the innate consciousness, the youth, who had hitherto been si¬ 
lent, now rose, and without the slightest hesitancy of manner, 
requested of the maiden that she would say no more. 

“ See you not, your honor, that her mind wavers—that she 
speaks and thinks wildly ? I am satisfied that though she might 
say something, your honor, in accounting for my strange flight, 
yet, as that constitutes but a small feature in the circumstances 
against me, what she can allege will avail me little. Press her 
no farther, therefore, I entreat you. Let her retire. Her word 
can do me no good, and I would not, that, for my sake and life, 
she should feel, for a single instant an embarrassment of spirit, 
which, though it be honorable in its character, must necessarily 
be distressing in its exercise. Proceed with your judgment, I 
pray you — whatever it may be; I am now ready for the worst, 
and though innocent as the babe unborn of the crime urged against 
me, I am not afraid to meet its consequences. I am not unwil¬ 
ling to die.” 

“But you must not die—they will not—they can not find 
you guilty ! How knoAv they you are guilty ? Who dares say 
you are guilty, when I know you are innocent ? Did I not see 
you fly ? Did I not send you on your way — was it not to 
escape from murder yourself that you flew, and how should you 
have been guilty of that crime of which you were the destined 
victim yourself? Oh, no — no! you are not guilty—and the 


380 


GUY RIVERS. 


dagger—I heard that!—that is not true—oh, no, the dagger 
—you dropt it—” 

The eye of the inspired girl was caught by a glance—a sin¬ 
gle glance—from one at the opposite corner of the court-room, 
and that glance brought her back to the full consciousness of the 
fearful development she was about to make. A decrepit old wo¬ 
man, resting with bent form upon a staff, which was planted firm¬ 
ly before her, seemed wrapped in the general interest pervading 
the court. The woman was huge of frame and rough of make; 
her face was large and swollen, and the tattered cap and bonnet, 
the coarse and soiled materials which she wore, indicated one of 
the humblest caste in the country. Her appearance attracted 
no attention, and she was unmarked by all around; few having 
eyes for anything but the exciting business under consideration. 

But the disguise did not conceal her uncle from the glance of 
his niece. That one look had the desired effect—the speech 
was arrested before its conclusion, and the spectators, now more 
than ever assured of the partial sanity of the witness, gave up 
any doubts which had previously began to grow in behalf of the 
accused. A second look of the landlord was emphatic enough 
for the purpose of completely silencing her farther evidence. 
She read in its fearful expression, as plainly as if spoken in 
words — “ The next syllable you utter is fatal to your uncle— 
your father. Now speak, Lucy, if you can.” 

For a single moment she was dumb and stationary — her eye 
turned from her uncle to the prisoner. Horror, and the agonies 
natural to the strife in her bosom, were in its wild expression, 
and, with a single cry of “I can not—I must not save him!” 
from her pallid lips, she sunk down senseless upon the floor, 
and was borne out by several of the more sympathizing spec¬ 
tators. 

There was nothing now to delay the action of the court. The 
counsel had closed with the argument, and the judge proceeded 
in his charge to the jury. His remarks were rather favorable 
than otherwise to the prisoner. He dwelt upon his youth — 
his manliness—the seeming excellence of his education, and 
the propriety which had marked his whole behavior on trial. 
These he spoke of as considerations which must, of course, 
make the duty, which they had to perform, more severely 


DOOM. 


381 


painful to all. But they could not do away with the strong 
and tenacious combination of circumstances against him. 
These were all closely knit, and all tended strongly to the 
conviction of the guilt of the accused. Still they were circum¬ 
stantial ; and the doubts of the jury were, of. course, so many 
arguments on the side of mercy. He concluded. 

But the jury had no doubts. How should they doubt ? They 
deliberated, indeed, for form’s sake, but not long. In a little 
while they returned to their place, and the verdict was read by 
the clerk. 

“ Guilty.” 

“ Guilty,” responded the prisoner, and for a moment his head 
dropped upon his clasped hands, and his frame shivered as with 
an ague. 

“Guilty — guilty — Oh, my father — Edith — Edith — have I 
lived for this ?” 

There was no other sign of human weakness. He arose with 
composure, and followed, with firm step, the officer to his dun¬ 
geon. His only thought was of the sorrows and the shame of 
others—of those of whom he had been the passion and the 
pride — of that father’s memory and name, of whom he had 
been the cherished hope.— of that maiden of whom he had been 
the cherished love. His firm, manly bearing won the esteem of 
all those who, nevertheless, at the same moment, had few if any 
doubts of the justice of his doom. 


882 


GUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

PRAYERS AND PROMISES. 

Ralph Colleton was once more in his dungeon—alone 
and without hope. For a moment during the progress of his 
trial, and at the appearance of Lucy, he deemed it possible that 
some providential fortune might work a change in the aspeet of 
things, favorable to his escape from what, to his mind, was far 
worse than any thought of death, in the manner of his death. 
But when, after a moment of reflection, he perceived that the 
feminine delicacy of the maiden must suffer from any further 
testimony from her lips — when he saw that, most probably, in 
the minds of all who heard her narration, the circumstance of 
her appearance in his chamber and at such an hour of the night, 
and for any object, would be fatal to her reputation — when he 
perceived this consciousness, too, weighing down even to agony 
the soul of the still courageous witness — the high sense of 
honor which had always prompted him, not less than that 
chivalrous consideration of the sex taught in the south among 
the earliest lessons of society to its youth — compelled him to 
interpose, and prevent, if possible, all further utterance, which, 
though possibly all-important to him, would be fatally destruc¬ 
tive to her. 

He did so at his own self-sacrifice! We have seen how the 
poor girl was silenced. The result was, that Ralph Colleton 
was again in his dungeon — hope shut out from its walls, and a 
fearful death and ignominy written upon them. When the 
officers attending him had retired—when he heard the bolt 
shot, and saw that the eyes of curiosity were excluded—the 
firm spirit fled which had supported him. There was a passing 
weakness of heart which overcame its energies and resolve, and 
he sunk down upon the single chair allotted to his prison. He 


PRAYERS AND PROMISES. 


388 


buried his face in his hands, and the warm tears gushed freely 
through his fingers. While thus weeping, like a very child, he 
heard the approach of footsteps without. In a moment he re¬ 
covered all his manliness and calm. The traces of his weak¬ 
ness were sedulously brushed from his cheeks, and the handker¬ 
chief employed for the purpose studiously put out of sight. He 
was not ashamed of the pang, but he was not willing that other 
eyes should behold it. Such was the nature of his pride—the 
pride of strength, moral strength, and superiority over those 
weaknesses, which, however natural they may be, are neverthe¬ 
less not often held becoming in the man. 

It was the pedler, Bunce, who made his appearance — choos¬ 
ing, with a feature of higher characteristic than would usually 
have been allotted him, rather to cheer the prison hours of the 
unfortunate, than to pursue his own individual advantages: 
which, at such a time, might not have been inconsiderable. 
The worthy pedler was dreadfully disappointed in the result 
of his late adventure. He had not given himself any trouble 
to inquire into the nature of those proofs which Lucy Munro 
had assured him were in her possession; but satisfied as much 
by his own hope as by her assurance, that all would be as he 
wished it, he had been elevated to a pitch of almost indecorous 
joy, which strongly contrasted with his present depression. He 
had little now to say in the way of consolation, and that little 
was coupled with so much that was unjust to the maiden, as to 
call forth, at length, the rebuke of Colleton. 

“Forbear on this subject, my good sir — she did what she 
could, and what she might have said would not have served me 
much. It was well she said no more. Her willingness—her 
adventuring so much in my behalf—should alone be sufficient 
to protect her from everything like blame. But tell me, Bunce, 
what has become of her—where is she gone, and who is now 
attending her V* 

“ Why, they took her back to the old tavern. A great big 
woman took her there, and looked after her. I did go and had 
a sight on her, and there, to be sure, was Munro’s wife, thorgh 
her I did see, I’ll be sworn in among the rocks where they shut 
us up.” 

“ And was Munro there ?” 


384 


GUY RIVERS. 


“ Where — in the rocks ?” 

«No — in the tavern?—You say his wife had come back— 
did he trust himself there ? 

“ I rather guess not — seeing as how he’d stand a close chance 
of ’quaintance with the rope. No, neither him, nor Rivers, nor 
any of the regulators — thank the powers — ain’t to be seen 
nowhere. They’re all off—up into the nation, I guess, or off, 
down in Alabam by this time, clear enough.” 

“ And who did you see at the rocks, and what men were they 
that made you prisoners ?” 

“ Men — if I said men, I was ’nation out, I guess. Did I say 
men ?” 

“ I understood you so.” 

“’Twan’t men at all. Nothing better than women, and nc 
small women neither. Didn’t see a man in the neighborhood, 
but Chub, and he ain’t no man neither.” 

“ What is he ?” 

“Why, for that matter, he’s neither one thing nor another— 
nothing, no how. A pesky little creature ! What they call a 
hobbe-de-hoy will suit for his name sooner than any other that 
I know on. For he ain’t a man and he ain’t a boy; but jest a 
short, half-grown up chunk of a fellow, with bunchy shoulders, 
and a big head, with a mouth like an oven, and long lap ears 
like saddle flaps.” 

In this manner the pedler informed Ralph of all those pre¬ 
vious particulars with which he had not till then been made 
acquainted. This having been done, and the dialogue having 
fairly reached its termination — and the youth exhibiting some 
strong symptoms of weariness—Bunce took his departure for 
the present, not, however, without again proffering his services. 
These Ralph did not scruple to accept — giving him, at the 
same time, sundry little commissions, and among them a mes¬ 
sage of thanks and respectful consideration to Miss Munro. 

She, in the meanwhile, had, upon fainting in the court-room, 
been borne off in a state of utter insensibility, to the former 
residence of Munro, to which place, as the pedler has already 
informed us, the wife of the landlord had that very morning 
returned, resuming, precisely as before, all the previous order 
of her domestic arrangements. The reason for this return may 


PRAYERS AND PROMISES. 


38,5 

be readily assigned. The escape of the pedler and of Lucy 
from their place of temporary confinement had completely upset 
all the prior arrangements of the outlaws. They now con¬ 
ceived it no longer safe as a retreat; and failing as they did to 
overtake the fugitives, it was determined that, in the disguises 
which had been originally suggested for their adoption, they 
should now venture into the village, as many of them as were 
willing, to obtain that degree of information which would enable 
them to judge what further plans to adopt. 

As Rivers had conjectured, Chub Williams, so far from taking 
for the village, had plunged deeper into the woods, flying to 
former and well known haunts, and regarding the face of man 
as that of a natural enemy. The pedler had seen none but 
women, or those so disguised as such as to seem none other than 
what they claimed to be—while Lucy had been permitted to 
see none hut her uncle and aunt, and one or two persons she 
had never met before. 

Under these circumstances, Rivers individually felt no appre¬ 
hensions that his wild refuge would be searched; hut Munro, 
something older, less sanguine, and somewhat more timid than 
his colleague, determined no longer to risk it; and having, as 
we have seen, effectually ehecked the utterance of that evidence 
which, in the unconscious excitation of his niece, must have 
involved him more deeply in the meshes of the law, besides 
indicating his immediate and near neighborhood, he made his 
way, unobserved, from the village, having first provided for her 
safety, and as he had determined to keep out of the way him¬ 
self, having brought his family back to their old place of abode. 

He had determined on this course from a variety of consid¬ 
erations. Nothing, he well knew, could affect his family. He 
had always studiously kept them from any participation in his 
offences. The laws had no terror for them; and, untroubled by 
any process against him, they could still remain and peaceably 
possess his property, of which he well knew, in the existing 
state of society in the South, no legal outlawry of himself would 
ever avail to deprive them. This could not have been his hope 
in their common flight. Such a measure, too, would only have 
impeded his progress, in the event of his pursuit, and have bur¬ 
dened him with encumbrances which would perpetually involve 

17 


386 


GUY RIVERS. 


him in difficulty. He calculated differently his chances. His 
hope was to be able, when the first excitements had overblown, 
to return to the village, and at least quietly to effect such a dis¬ 
position of his property, which was not inconsiderable, as to 
avoid the heavy and almost entire loss which would necessarily 
follow any other determination. 

In all this, however, it may be remarked that the reasonings 
of Rivers, rather than his own, determined his conduct. That 
more adventurous ruffian had, from his superior boldness and 
greater capacities in general, acquired a singular and large in¬ 
fluence over his companion: he governed him, too, as much by 
his desire of gain as by any distinct superiority which he him¬ 
self possessed; he stimulated his avarice with the promised re¬ 
sults of their future enterprises in the same region after the pas¬ 
sing events were over; and thus held him still in that fearful 
bondage of subordinate villany whose inevitable tendency is to 
make the agent the creature, and finally the victim. The gripe 
which, in a moral sense, and with a slight reference to charac¬ 
ter, Rivers had upon the landlord, was as tenacious as that of 
death — but with this difference, that it was death prolonged 
through a fearful, and, though not a protracted, yet much too 
long a life. 

The determination of Munro was made accordingly; and, 
following hard upon the flight of Lucy from the rocks, we find 
the landlady quietly reinstated in her old home as if nothing 
had happened. Munro did not, however, return to the place of 
refuge; he had no such confidence in circumstances as Rivers; 
his fears had grown active in due proportion with his increase 
of years; and, with the increased familiarity with crime, had 
grown up in his mind a corresponding doubt of all persons, and 
an active suspicion which trusted nothing. His abode in all 
this time was uncertain: he now slept at one deserted lodge, 
and now at another; now in the disguise of one and now of 
another character; now on horseback, now on foot—but in no 
two situations taking the same feature or disguise. In the 
night-time he sometimes adventured, though with great caution, 
to the village, and made inquiries. On all hands, he heard of 
nothing but the preparations making against the clan of which 
he was certainly one of the prominent heads. The state wan 


PRAYERS AND PROMISES. 


387 


roused into activity, and a proclamation of the governor, offer¬ 
ing a high reward for the discovery and detention of any per¬ 
sons having a hand in the murder of the guard, was on one occa¬ 
sion put into his own hands. All these things made caution 
necessary, and, though venturing still very considerably at times, 
he was yet seldom entirely off his guard. 

Rivers kept close in the cover of his den. That den had 
numberless ramifications, however, known only to himself; and 
his calm indifference was the result of a conviction that it would 
require two hundred men, properly instructed, and all at the 
same moment, to trace him through its many sinuosities. He 
too, sometimes, carefully disguised, penetrated into the village, 
but never much in the sight of those who were not bound to 
him by a common danger. To Lucy he did not appear on such 
occasions, though he did to the old lady, and even at the family 
fireside. 

Lucy, indeed, had eyes for few objects, and thoughts but for 
one. She sat as one stupified with danger, yet sufficiently con¬ 
scious of it as to be conscious of nothing besides. She was be¬ 
wildered with the throng of horrible circumstances which had 
been so crowded on her mind and memory in so brief a space 
of time. At one moment she blamed her own weakness in suf¬ 
fering the trial of Ralph to progress to a consummation which 
she shuddered to reflect upon. Had she a right to withhold her 
testimony — testimony so important to the life and the honor of 
one person, because others might suffer in consequence — those 
others the real criminals, and he the innocent victim ? and lov¬ 
ing him as she did, and hating or fearing his enemies ] Had 
she performed her duty in suffering his case to go to judgment ? 
and such a judgment—so horrible a doom ! Should she now 
suffer it to go to its dreadful execution, when a word from her 
would stay the hand of the officer, and save the life of the con¬ 
demned ] But would such be its effect ? What credence would 
be given now to one who, in the hall of justice, had sunk down 
like a criminal herself—withholding the truth, and contradict¬ 
ing every word of her utterance] To whom, then, could she 
apply 1 who would hear her plea, even though she boldly nar¬ 
rated all the truth, in behalf of the prisoner ? She maddened 
as she thought on all these difficulties; her blood grew fevered, 


388 


GUY RIVERS. 


a thick haze overspread her senses, and she raved at last in the 
most wild delirium. 

Some days went by in her unconsciousness, and when she at 
length grew calm—when the fever of her mind had somewhat 
subsided—she opened her eyes and found, to her great sur¬ 
prise, her uncle sitting beside her couch. It was midnight; 
and this was the hour he had usually chosen when making his 
visits to his family. In these stolen moments, his attendance 
was chiefly given to that hapless orphan, whose present suffer¬ 
ings he well knew were in great part attributable to himself. 

The thought smote him, for, in reference to her, all feeling 
had not yet departed from his soul. There was still a lurking 
sensibility — a lingering weakness of humanity—one of those 
pledges which nature gives of her old affiliation, and which she 
never entirely takes away from the human heart. There are 
still some strings, feeble and wanting in energy though they be, 
which bind even the most reckless outcast in some little partic¬ 
ular to humanity; and, however time, and the world’s variety 
of circumstance, may have worn them and impaired their firm 
hold, they still sometimes, at unlooked-for hours, regrapple the 
long-rebellious subject, and make themselves felt and understood 
as in the first moments of their creation. 

Such now was their resumed sway with Munro. While his 
niece—the young, the beautiful, the virtuous—so endowed by 
nature — so improved by education—so full of those fine graces, 
beyond the reach of any art—lay before him insensible — her 
fine mind spent in incoherent ravings—her gentle form racked 
with convulsive shudderings—the still, small, monitorial voice, 
unheard so long, spoke out to him in terrible rebukings; He 
felt in those moments how deeply he had been a criminal; how 
much, not of his own, he had appropriated to himself and sacri¬ 
ficed ; and how sacred a trust he had abused, in the person of 
the delicate creature before him, by a determination the most 
cruel and perhaps unnecessary. 

Days had elapsed in her delirium; and such were his newly- 
awakened feelings, that each night brought him, though at con¬ 
siderable risk, an attendant by her bed. His hand administered 
— his eyes watched over; and, in the new duties of the parent, 
he acquired a new feeling of duty and domestic love, the pleas- 


PRAYERS AND PROMISES. 


389 


ures of which he had never felt before. But she grew conscious 
at last, and her restoration relieved his mind of one apprehension 
which had sorely troubled it. Her condition, during her illness, 
was freely described to her. But she thought not of herself— 
she had no thought for any other than the one for whom thoughts 
and prayers promised now to avail but little. 

“Uncle—” she spoke at last — “you are here, and I rejoice 
to see you. I have much to say, much to beg at your hands: 
oh, let me not beg in vain ! Let me not find you stubborn to 
that which may not make me happy — I say not that, for happy 
I never look to be again — but make me as much so as human 
power can make me. When—” and she spoke hurriedly, while 
a strong and aguish shiver went through her whole frame — 
“ when is it said that he must die V* 

He knew perfectly of whom she spoke, but felt reluctant to 
indulge her mind in a reference to the subject which had al¬ 
ready exercised so large an influence over it. But he knew 
little of the distempered heart, and fell into an error by no 
means uncommon with society. She soon convinced him of 
this, when his prolonged silence left it doubtful whether he con¬ 
templated an answer. 

“ Why are you silent ? do you fear to speak 1 Have no fears 
now. We have no time for fear. We must be active—ready 
—bold. Feel my hand : it trembles no longer. I am no longer 
a weak-hearted woman.” 

He again doubted her sanity, and spoke to her soothingly, 
seeking to divert her mind to indifferent subjects; but she 
smiled on the endeavor, which she readily understood, and put¬ 
ting aside her aunt, who began to prattle in a like strain, and 
with a like object, she again addressed her uncle. 

“Doubt me not, uncle : I rave no longer. I am now calm — 
calm as it is possible for me to be, having such a sorrow as mine 
struggling at my heart. Why should I hide it from you ? It 
will not be hidden. I love him—love him as woman never 
loved man before — with a soul and spirit all unreservedly his, 
and with no thought in which he is not always the principal. 
I know that he loves another; I know that the passion which I 
feel I must feel and cherish alone ; that it must burn itself away, 
though it burn away its dwelling-place. I am resigned to such 


390 


GUY RIVERS. 


a fate; but I am not prepared for more. I can not bear that 
he too should die — and such a death! He must not die — he 
must not die, my uncle; though we save him — ay, save him — 
for another.” 

“Shame on you, my daughter!—how can you confess so 
much? Think on your sex — you are a woman — think on 
your youth !” Such was the somewhat strongly-worded rebuke 
of the old lady. 

“ I have thought on all—on everything. I feel all that you 
have said, and the thought and the feeling have been my mad¬ 
ness. I must speak, or I shall again go mad. I am not the 
tame and cold creature that the world calls woman. I have 
been differently made. I can love in the world’s despite. I 
can feel through the world’s freeze. I can dare all, when my 
soul is in it, though the world sneer in scorn and contempt. But 
what I have said, is said to you. I would not—no, not for 
worlds, that he should know I said it—not for worlds !” and her 
cheeks were tinged slightly, while her head rested for a single 
instant upon the pillow. 

“ But all this is nothing!” she started up, and again addressed 
herself to the landlord. “ Speak, uncle! tell me, is there yet 
time—yettime to save him ? When is it they say he must die?” 

“ On Friday next, at noon.” 

“And this— ?” 

“ Is Monday.” 

“ He must not die—no, not die, then, my uncle ! You must 
save him—you must save him! You have been the cause of 
his doom : you must preserve him from its execution. You owe 
it him as a debt—you owe it me—you owe it to yourself. Be¬ 
lieve not, my uncle, that there is no other day than this—no 
other world—no other penalties than belQng to this. You read 
no bible, but you have a thought which must tell you that there 
are worlds—there is a life yet to come. I know you can not 
doubt—you must not doubt—you must believe. Have a feai 
of its punishments, have a hope of its rewards, and listen to my 
prayer. You must save Ralph Colleton; ask me not how — talk 
not of difficulties. You must save him — you must—you must!” 

“Why, you forget, Lucy, my dear child—you forget that I 
too am in danger. This is midnight: it is only at this hour 


PRAYERS AND PROMISES. 


891 


that I can steal into the village; and how, and in what man- 
der, shall I be able to do as you require ?” 

“Oh, man!—man!—forgive me, dear uncle, I would not 
vex you! But if there were gold in that dungeon — broad bars 
of gold, or shining silver, or a prize that would make you rich, 
would you ask me the how and the where ? Would that clum¬ 
sy block, and those slight bars, and that dull jailer, be an ob¬ 
stacle that would keep you back? Would you need a poor 
girl like me to tell you that the blocks might be pierced — that 
the bars might be broken—that the jailer might be won to the 
mercy which would save? You have strength — you have skill 
—you have the capacity, the power — there is but one thing 
wanting to my prayer — the will, the disposition!” 

“You do me wrong, Lucy—great wrong, believe me. I feel 
for this young man, and the thought has been no less painful to 
me than to you, that my agency has contributed in great meas¬ 
ure to his danger. But what if I were to have the will, as you 
say — what if I went forward to the jailer and offered a bribe 
— would not the bribe which the state has offered for my arrest 
be a greater attraction than any in my gift ? To scale the walls 
and break the bars, or in any forcible manner to effect the pur¬ 
pose, I must have confederates, and in whom could I venture to 
confide ? The few to whom I could intrust such a design are, 
like myself, afraid to adventure or be seen, and such a design 
would be defeated by Livers himself, who so much hates the 
youth, and is bent on his destruction.” 

“ Speak not of him — say to him nothing —you must do it 
yourself if you do it all. You can effect much if you seriously 
determine. You can design, and execute all, and find ready 
and able assistance, if you once willingly set about it. I am 
not able to advise, nor will you need my counsel. Assure me 
that you will make the effort—that you will put your whole 
heart in it—and I have no fears — I feel confident of his escape.” 

“ You think too highly of my ability in this respect. There 
was a time, Lucy, when such a design had not been so desperate, 
but now—” 

“Oh, not so desperate now, uncle, uncle — I could not live— 
not a moment—were he to perish in that dreadful manner! 
Have I no claim upon your mercy — will you not do for m* 


392 


GUY RIVERS. 


wliat you would do for money—what you have done at the 
bidding of that dreadful wretch, Rivers ? Nay, look not away, 
I know it all — I know that you had the dagger of Colleton — 
that you put it into the hands of the wretch who struck the man 
— that you saw him strike—that you strove not to stop his 
hand. Fear you not I shall reveal it? Fear you not?—-but I 
will not—I can not! Yet this should be enough to make you 
strive in this service. Heard you not, too, when he spoke and 
stopped my evidence, knowing that my word would have saved 
him—rather than see me brought to the dreadful trial of tel¬ 
ling what I knew of that night — that awful night—when you 
both sought his life? Oh, I could love him for this—for this 
one thing—were there nothing else besides worthy of my 
love!” 

The incident to which she referred had not been unregarded 
by the individual she addressed, and while she spoke, his looks 
assumed a meditative expression, and he replied as in soliloquy, 
and in broken sentences :— 

“ Oo'dd 1 pass to the jail unperceived — gain admittance— 
then—but who would grapple with the jailer — how manage 
that? — let me see—but no — no — that is impossible !” 

“What is impossible? — nothing is impossible in this work, 
if you will but try. Do not hesitate, dear uncle — it will look 
easier if you will reflect upon it. You will see many ways of 
bringing it about. You can get aid if you want it. There’s the 
pedler, who is quite willing, and Chub—Chub will do much, if 
you can only find him out.” 

The landlord smiled as she named these two accessaries 
“Bunce—why, what could the fellow do?—lie’s not the mar. 
for such service; now Chub might be of value, if he’d only fol 
low orders : but that he won’t do. I don’t see how we’re tc 
work it, Lucy — it looks more difficult the more I think on it.” 

“ Oh, if it’s only difficult — if it’s not impossible — it will be 
done. Do not shrink back, uncle ; do not scruple. The youth 
has done you no wrong—you have done him much. You have 
brought him where he is, he would have been safe otherwise. 
You must save him. Save him, uncle — and hear me as I prom 
ise. You may then do with me as you please. From that mo¬ 
ment I am your slave, and then, if it must be so — if you will 


PRAYERS AND PROMISES. 


393 


then require it, I am willing then to become his slave too—him 
whom you have served so faithfully and so unhappily for so 
long a season.” 

“ Of whom speak you ?” 

“ Guy Rivers ! yes—I shall then obey you, though the fu¬ 
neral come with the bridal.” 

“ Lucy!” 

“ It is true. I hope not to survive it. It will be a worse 
destiny to me than even the felon death to the youth whom I 
would save. Do with me as you please then, hut let him not 
perish. Rescue him from the doom you have brought upon 
him — and oh, my uncle, in that other world — if there we meet 
—the one good deed shall atone, in the thought of my poor fa¬ 
ther, for the other most dreadful sacrifice to which his daughter 
now resigns herself.” 

The stern man was touched. He trembled, and his lips 
quivered convulsively as he took her hand into his own. Re¬ 
covering himself, in a firm tone, as solemn as that which she 
had preserved throughout the dialogue, he replied— 

“ Hear me, Lucy, and believe what I assure you. I will try 
to save this youth. I will do what I can, my poor child, to re¬ 
deem the trust of your father. I have been no father to you 
heretofore, not much of one, at least, but it is not too late, 
and I will atone. I will do my best for Colleton—the thing 
is full of difficulty and danger, but I will try to save him. All 
this, however, must be unknown—not a word to anybody; 
and Rivers must not see you happy, or he will suspect. Better 
not be seen — still keep to your chamber, and rest assured that 
all will be done, in my power, for the rescue of the youth.” 

“Oh, now you are, indeed, my father—yet—uncle, shall I 
see you at the time when it is to be done ? Tell me at what 
moment you seek his deliverance, that I may be upon my 
knees. Yet say not to him that I have done anything or said 
anything which has led to your endeavors. He will not think 
so well of me if you do; and, though he may not love, I would 
have him think always of me as if—as if I were a woman.” 

She was overcome with exertion, and in the very revival of 
her hope, her strength was exhausted; but she had sunk into a 
sweet sleep ere her uncle left the apartment. 

17 * 


394 


GUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

NEW PARTIES ON THE STAGE. 

A day more had elapsed, and the bustle in the little village 
was increased by the arrival of other travellers. A new light 
came to the dungeon of Ralph Colleton, in the persons of his 
uncle and cousin Edith, whom his letters, at his first arrest, had 
apprized of his situation. They knew that situation only in 
part, however; and the first intimation of his doom was that 
which he himself gave them. 

The meeting was full of a painful pleasure. The youth him¬ 
self was firm—muscle and mind all over; but deeply did his 
uncle reproach himself for his precipitation and sternness, and 
the grief of Edith, like all deep grief, was dumb, and had no 
expression. There was but the sign of wo—of wo inexpressi¬ 
ble— in the ashy lip, the glazed, the tearless and half-wander¬ 
ing eye, and the convulsive shiver, that at intervals shook her 
whole frame, like strong and sudden gusts among the foliage. 
The youth, if he had any at such an hour, spared his reproaches. 
He narrated in plain and unexaggerated language, as if engaged 
in the merest narration of commonplace, all the circumstances 
of nis trial. He pointed ut the difficulties of his situation, to 
his mind insuperable, and strove to prepare the minds of those 
who heard, for the final and saddest trial of all, even as his own 
mind was prepared. In that fearful work of preparation, the 
spirit of love could acknowledge no restraining influence, and 
never was embrace more fond than that of Ralph and the 
maiden. Much of his uncle’s consolation was found in the bet¬ 
ter disposition which he now entertained, though at too late a 
day, in favor of their passion. He would now willingly con¬ 
sent to all. 

“Had you not been so precipitate, Ralph—” he said, “had 
you not been so proud—had you thought at all, or given me 


NEW PARTIES ON THE STAGE. 


395 


time for thought, all this trial had been spared us. Was I not 
irritated by other things when I spoke to you unkindly ? You 
knew not how much I had been chafed—you should not have 
been so hasty.” 

“No more of this, uncle, I pray you. I was wrong and rash, 
and I blame you not. I have nobody but myself to reproach. 
Speak not of the matter; but, as the best preparation for all 
that is to come, let your thought banish me rather from con¬ 
templation. Why should the memory of so fair a creature as 
this be haunted by a story such as mine? Why should she 
behold, in her mind’s eye, for ever, the picture of my dying 
agonies—the accursed scaffold — the—” and the emotion of 
his soul, at the subject of his own contemplation, choked him 
in his utterance, while Edith, half-fainting in his arms, prayed 
his forbearance. 

“ Speak not thus — not of this, Ralph, if you would not have 
me perish. I am fearfully sick now, my head swims, and all 
is commotion at my heart. Not water—not water — give me 
hope — consolation. Tell me that there is still some chance— 
some little prospect — that some noble people are striving in 
your cause — that somebody is gone in search of evidence—in 
search of hope. Is there no circumstance which may avail ? 
Said you not something of—did you not tell me of a person 
who could say for you that which would have done much to¬ 
wards your escape? A woman, was it not—speak, who is she 
—let me go to her — she will not refuse to tell me all, and do 
all, if she be a woman.” 

Ralph assured her in the gentlest manner of the hopelessness 
of any such application ; and the momentary dream which her 
own desires had conjured into a promise, as suddenly subsided, 
leaving her to a full consciousness of her desolation. Her fa¬ 
ther at length found it necessary to abridge the interview 
Every moment of its protraction seemed still more to unsettle 
the understanding of his daughter. She spoke wildly and con¬ 
fusedly, and in that thought of separation which the doom of 
her lover perpetually forced upon her, she contemplated, in all 
its fearful extremities, her own. She was borne away half de¬ 
lirious — the feeling of wo something blunted, however, by the 
mental unconsciousness following its realization. 


396 


GUY RIVERS. 


Private apartments were readily found them in the village, 
and having provided good attendance for his daughter, Colonel 
Colleton set out, though almost entirely hopeless, to ascertain 
still farther the particulars of the case, and to see what might 
be done in behalf of one of whose innocence he felt perfectly 
assured. He knew Ralph too well to suspect him of falsehood; 
and the clear narrative which he had given, and the manly 
and unhesitating account of all particulars having any bearing 
on the case which had fallen from his lips, he knew, from all 
his previous high-mindedness of character, might safely be re¬ 
lied on. Assured of this himself, he deemed it not improbable 
that something might undergo development, in a course of ac¬ 
tive inquiry, which might tend to the creation of a like convic¬ 
tion in the minds of those in whom rested the control of life 
and judgment. 

Ilis first visit was to the lawyer, from whom, however, he 
could procure nothing, besides being compelled, without possi¬ 
bility of escape, to listen to a long string of reproaches against 
his nephew. 

“ I could, and would have saved him, Colonel Colleton, if the 
power were in mortal,” was the self-sufficient speech of the little 
man; “ but he would not—he broke in upon me when the very 
threshold was to be passed, and just as I was upon it. Things 
were in a fair train, and all might have gone well but for his 
boyish interruption. I would have come over the jury with a 
settler. I would have made out a case, sir, for their considera¬ 
tion, which every man of them would have believed he himself 
saw. I would have shown your nephew, sir, riding down the 
narrow trace, like a peaceable gentleman; anon, sir, you should 
have seen Forrester coming along full tilt after him. Forrester 
should have cried out with a whoop and a right royal oath ; then 
Mr. Colleton would have heard him, and turned round to re¬ 
ceive him. But Forrester is drunk, you know, and will not 
understand the young man’s civilities. He blunders out a vol¬ 
ley of curses right and left, and bullies Master Colleton for a 
fight, which he declines. But Forrester is too drunk to mind 
all that. Without more ado, he mounts the young gentleman 
and is about to pluck out his eyes, when he feels the dirk in his 
ribs, and then they cut loose. He gets the dirk from Master 


NEW PARTIES ON THE STAGE. 


397 


Colleton, and makes at him; but he picks up a hatchet that 
happens to be lying about, and drives at his head, and down 
drops Forrester, as he ought to, dead as a door-nail.” 

“ Good heavens ! and why did you not bring these facts for¬ 
ward 'l They surely could not have condemned him under these 
circumstances.” 

“ Bring them forward ! To be sure, I would have done so; 
but, as I tell you, just when on the threshold, at the very en¬ 
trance into the transaction, up pops this hasty young fellow— 
I’m sorry to call your nephew so, Colonel Colleton—hut the 
fact is, he owes his situation entirely to himself. I would have 
saved him, but he was obstinately bent on not being saved; and 
just as I commenced the affair, up he pops and tells me, before 
all the people, that I know nothing about it. A pretty joke, 
indeed. I know nothing about it, and it my business to know 
all about it. Sir, it ruined him. I saw, from that moment, 
how the cat would jump. I pitied the poor fellow, but what 
more could I do V’ 

“But it is not too late — we can memorialize the governor, 
we can put these facts in form, and by duly showing them with 
the accompanying proofs, we can obtain a new trial — a respite.” 

“Can’t be done now — it’s too late. Had I been let alone — 
had not the youth come between me and my duty — I would 
have saved him, sir, as under God, I have saved hundreds be¬ 
fore. But it’s too late now.” 

“ Oh, surely not too late ! with the facts that you mention, if 
you will give me the names of the witnesses furnishing them, so 
that I can obtain their affidavits—” 

“ Witnesses ! — what witnesses V* 

“ Why, did you not tell me of the manner in which Forrester 
assaulted my nephew, and forced upon him what he did as mat¬ 
ter of self-defense ] Where is the proof of this ?” 

“Oh, proof! Why, you did not think that was the true 
state of the case — that was only the case I was to present to 
the jury.” 

“ And there is, then, no evidence for what you have said V* 

“Not a tittle, sir. Evidence is scarcely necessary in a case 
like this, sir, where the state proves more than you can possibly 
disprove. Your only hope, sir is to present a plausible conjee- 


398 


GUY RIVERS. 


ture to the jury. Just set their fancies to work, and they have 
a taste most perfectly dramatic. What you leave undone, they 
will do. Where you exhibit a blank, they will supply the 
words wanting. Only set them on trail, and they’ll tree the 
’possum. They are noble hands at it, and, as I now live and 
talk to you, sir, not one of them who heard the plausible story 
which I would have made out, but would have discovered more 
common sense and reason in it than in all the evidence you could 
possibly have given them. Because, you see, I’d have given 
them a reason for everything. Look, how I should have made 
out the story. Mr. Colleton and Forrester are excellent friends, 
and both agree to travel together. Well, they’re to meet at 
the forks by midnight. In the meantime, Forrester goes to see 
his sweetheart, Kate Allen — a smart girl, by the way, colonel, 
and well to look on. Parting’s a very uncomfortable thing, 
now, and they don’t altogether like it. Kate cries, and Forres¬ 
ter storms. Well, must come comes at last. They kiss, and 
are off—different ways. Well, grief’s but a dry companion, 
and to get rid of him, Forrester takes a drink; still grief holds 
on, and then he takes another and another, until grief gets off 
at last, but not before taking with him full half, and not the 
worst half either, of the poor fellow’s senses. What then ? 
Why, then he swaggers and swears at everything, and particu¬ 
larly at your nephew, who, you see, not knowing his condition, 
swears at him for keeping him waiting—” 

“ Ralph Colleton never swears, Mr. Pippin,” said the colonel, 
grimly. 

“ Well, well, if he didn’t swear then, he might very well have 
sworn, and I’ll be sworn but he did on that occasion; and it was 
very pardonable too. Well, he swears at the drunken man, not 
knowing his condition, and the drunken man rolls and reels like 
a rowdy, and gives it to him back, and then they get at it. Your 
nephew, who is a stout colt, buffets him well for a time, but For¬ 
rester, who is a mighty, powerful built fellow, he gets the bet¬ 
ter in the long run, and both come down together in the road. 
Then Forrester, being uppermost, sticks his thumb into Master 
Colleton’s eye—the left eye, I think, it was — yes, the left eye 
it was—and the next moment it would have been out, when 
your nephew, not liking it, whipped out his dirk, and, ’fore 


NEW PARTIES ON THE STAGE. 


399 


Forrester could say Jack Robinson, it was playing about in bis 
ribs; and, then comes the hatchet part, just as I told it vou be¬ 
fore.” 

“And is none of this truth V 9 

“ God bless your soul, no! Do you suppose, if it was the 
truth, it. would have taken so long a time in telling ? I wouldn’t 
have wasted the breath on it. The witnesses would have done 
that, if it were true; but in this was the beauty of my art, and 
had I been permitted to say to the jury what I’ve said to you, 
the young man would have been clear. It wouldn’t have been 
gospel, but where’s the merit of a lawyer, if lie can’t go through 
a bog h This is one of the sweetest and most delightful features 
of the profession. Sir, it is putting the wings of fiction to the 
lifeless and otherwise immovable body of the fact.” 

Colonel Colleton was absolutely stunned by the fertility and 
volubility of the speaker, and after listening for some time 
longer, as long as it was possible to procure from him anything 
which might be of service, he took his departure, bending his 
way next to the wigwam, in which, for the time being, the ped- 
ler had taken up his abode. It will not be necessary that we 
should go with him there, as it is not probable that anything 
materially serving his purpose or ours will be adduced from the 
narrative of Bunce. In the meantime, we will turn our atten¬ 
tion to a personage, whose progress must correspond, in all re¬ 
spects, with that of our narrative. 

Guy Rivers had not been unapprized of the presence of the 
late comers at the village. He had his agents at work, who 
marked the progress of things, and conveyed their intelligence 
to him with no qualified fidelity. The arrival of Colonel Colle¬ 
ton and his daughter had been made known to him within a few 
hours after its occurrence, and the feelings of the outlaw were 
of a nature the most complex and contradictory. Secure with¬ 
in his den, the intricacies of which were scarcely known to any 
but himself, he did not study to restrain those emotions which 
had prompted him to so much unjustifiable outrage. With no 
eye to mark his actions or to note his speech, the guardian 
watchfulness which had -secreted so much, in his association 
with others, was taken off; and we sec much of that heart and 
those wild principles of its government, the mysteries of which 


400 


GUY RIVERS. 


contain so much that it is terrible to see. Slowly, and for a 
long time after the receipt of the above-mentioned intelligence, 
he strode up and down the narrow cell of his retreat; all pas¬ 
sions at sway and contending for the mastery—sudden action 
and incoherent utterance occasionally diversifying the otherwise 
monotonous movements of his person. At one moment, he would 
clinch his hands with violence together, while an angry maledic¬ 
tion would escape through his knitted teeth — at another, a de¬ 
moniac smile of triumph, and a fierce laugh of gratified malig¬ 
nity would ring through the apartment, coming bark upon him 
in an echo, which would again restore him to consciousness, and 
bring back the silence so momentarily banished. 

“ They are here; they have come to witness his degradation 
—to grace my triumph — to feel it, and understand my revenge. 
Wc will see if the proud beauty knows me now — if she yet 
continues to discard and to disdain me. 1 have her now upon 
my own terms. She will not refuse; I am sure of her; I shall 
conquer her proud heart; I will lead her in chains, the heaviest 
chains of all — the chains of a dreadful necessity. He must die 
else! I will howl it in her ears with the voice of the wolf; I 
will paint it before her eyes with a finger dipped in blood and 
in darkness! She shall see him carried to the gallows; I 
shall make her note the halter about his neck—that neck, 
which, in her young thought, her arms were to have encircled 
only; nor shall she shut her eyes upon the last scene, nor close 
her ears to the last groan of my victim! She shall see and 
hear all, or comply with all that I demand ! It must be done : 
but how? How shall I see her? how obtain her presence? 
how command her attention ? Pshaw ! shall a few beardless 
soldiers keep me back, and baffle me in this ? Shall I dread 
the shadow now, and shrink back when the sun shines out that 
makes it ? I will not fear. I will see her. I will bid defiance 
to them all! She shall know my power, and upon one condi¬ 
tion only will I use it to save him. She will not dare to refuse 
the condition; she will consent; she will at last be mine : and 
for this I will do so much — go so far—ay, save him whom I 
would yet be so delighted to destroy!” 

Night came; and in a small apartment of one of the lowliest 
dwellings of Chestatee, Edith and her father sat iu the deepest 


NEW PARTIES ON THE STAGE. 


401 


melancholy, conjuring up perpetually in their m Ads those im¬ 
ages of sorrow so natural to their present situation. It was 
somewhat late, and they had just returned from an evening 
visit to the dungeon of Ralph Colleton. The mind of the youth 
was in far better condition than theirs, and his chief employment 
had been in preparing them for a similar feeling of resignation 
with himself. He had succeeded but indifferently. They strove 
to appear firm, in order that he should not be less so than they 
found him ; but the effort was very perceptible, and the recoil 
of their dammed-up emotions was only so much more fearful 
and overpowering. The strength of Edith had been severely 
tried, and her head now rested upon the bosom of her father, 
whose arms were required for her support, in a state of feeble¬ 
ness and exhaustion, leaving it doubtful, at moments, whether 
the vital principle had not itself utterly departed. 

At this period the door opened, and a stranger stood abruptly 
before them. His manner was sufficiently imposing, though his 
dress was that of the wandering countryman, savoring of the 
jockey, and not much unlike that frequently worn by such way¬ 
farers as the stagedriver and carrier of the mails. He had on 
an overcoat made of buckskin, an article of the Indian habit; 
a deep fringe of the same material hung suspended from two 
heavy capes that depended from the shoulder. His pantaloons 
were made of buckskin also ; a foxskin cap rested slightly upon 
his head, rather more upon one side than the other; while a 
whip of huge dimensions occupied one of his hands. Whiskers, 
of a bushy form and most luxuriant growth, half-obscured his 
cheek, and the mustaches were sufficiently small to lead to the 
inference that the wearer had only recently decided to suffer 
the region to grow wild. A black-silk handkerchief, wrapped 
loosely about his neck, completed the general outline; and the 
tout ensemble indicated one of those dashing blades, so frequently 
to be encountered in the southern country, who, despising the 
humdrum monotony of regular life, are ready for adventure— 
lads of the turf, the muster-ground, the general affray — the men 
who can whip their weight in wild-cats—whose general rule it 
is to knock down and drag out. 

Thougl startling at first to both father and daughter, the man¬ 
ner of the intruder was such as to forbid any further alarm than 


402 


GUT RIVERS. 


was incidental to his first abrupt appearance. His conduct was 
respectful and distant — closely observant of the proprieties in 
his address, and so studiously guarded as to satisfy them, at the 
very outset, that nothing improper was intended. Still, his en¬ 
trance without any intimation wat- sufficiently objectionable to 
occasion a hasty demand from Colonel Colleton as to the mean¬ 
ing of his intrusion. 

“ None, sir, is intended, which may not be atoned for,” was 
the reply. “ I had reason to believe, Colonel Colleton, that the 
present melancholy circumstances of your family were such as 
might excuse an intrusion which may have the effect of making 
them less so; which, indeed, may go far toward the preven¬ 
tion of that painful event which you now contemplate as cer¬ 
tain.” 

The words were electrical in their effect upon both father 
and daughter. The former rose from his chair, and motioned 
the stranger to be seated; while the daughter, rapidly rising 
also, with an emotion which gave new life to her form, inquired 
breathlessly — 

‘"Speak, sir! say—how!” — and she lingered and listened 
with figure bent sensibly forward, and hand uplifted and mo¬ 
tionless, for reply. The person addressed smiled with visible 
effort, while slight shades of gloom, like the thin clouds fleeting 
over the sky at noonday, obscured at intervals the otherwise 
subdued and even expression of his countenance. He looked 
at the maiden while speaking, but his words were addressed to 
her father. 

“ I need not tell you, sir, that the hopes of your nephew are 
gone. There is no single chance upon which he can rest a 
doubt whereby his safety may be secured. The doom is pro¬ 
nounced, the day is assigned, and the executioner is ready.” 

“ Is your purpose insult, sir, that you tell us this 1” was the 
rather fierce inquiry of the colonel. 

“ Calmly, sir,” was the response, in a manner corresponding 
well with the nature of his words; “ my purpose, I have already 
said, is to bring, or at least to offer, relief; to indicate a course 
which may result in the safety of the young man whose life is 
now at hazard ; and to contribute, myself, to the object which 
I propose.” 


NEW PARTIES ON THE STAGE. 


403 


“Go on—go on, sir, if you please, but spare all unnecessary 
reference to liis situation,’’ said the colonel, as a significant pres¬ 
sure of his arm on the part of his daughter motioned him to 
patience. The stranger proceeded : — 

“My object in dwelling upon the youth’s situation was, if 
possible, by showing its utter hopelessness in every other re¬ 
spect, to induce you the more willingly to hear what I had to 
offer, and to comply with certain conditions which must be pre¬ 
paratory to any development upon my part.” 

“ There is something strangely mysterious in this. I am 
willing to do anything and everything, in reason and without 
dishonor, for the safety of my nephew; the more particularly 
as I believe him altogether innocent of the crime laid to his 
charge. More than this I dare not; and I shall not bo "willing 
to yield to unknown conditions, prescribed by a stranger, what¬ 
ever be the object: but speak out at once, sir, and keep us no 
longer in suspense. In the meantime, retire, Edith, my child; 
we shall best transact this business in your absence. You will 
feel too acutely the consideration of this subject to listen to it in 
discussion. Go, my daughter.” 

But the stranger interposed, with a manner not to be ques¬ 
tioned : — 

“ Let her remain, Colonel Colleton ; it is, indeed* only to her 
that I can reveal the mode and the conditions of the assistance 
which I am to offer. This was the preliminary condition of 
which I spoke. To her alone can my secret be revealed, and 
my conference must be entirely with her.” 

“ But, sir, this is so strange—so unusual — so improper.” 

“ True, Colonel Colleton; in the ordinary concerns, the every¬ 
day offices of society, it would be strange, unusual, and improp¬ 
er ; but these are not times, and this is not a region of the world, 
in which the common forms are to be insisted upon. You for¬ 
get, sir, that you are in the wild abiding-place of men scarcely 
less wild — with natures as stubborn as the rocks, and with 
manners as uncouth and rugged as the woodland growth which 
surrounds us. I know as well as yourself that my demand is 
unusual; but such is my situation — such, indeed, the necessi¬ 
ties of the whole case, that there is no alternative. I am per¬ 
suaded that your nephew can be saved; I am willing to make 


404 


GUY RIVERS. 


an effort for that purpose, and my conditions are to be complit d 
with: one of them you have heard — it is for your daughter to 
hear the rest.” 

The colonel still hesitated. lie was very tenacious of those 
forms of society, and of intercourse between the sexes, which 
are rigidly insisted upon in the South, and his reluctance was 
manifest. While he yet hesitated, the stranger again spoke: 

“ The condition which I have proposed, sir, is unavoidable, 
but I ask you not to remove from hearing: the adjoining room 
is not so remote but that you can hear any appeal which your 
daughter may be pleased to make. Her call would reach your 
ears without effort. My own security depends, not less than 
that of your nephew, upon your compliance with the condition 
under which only will 1 undertake to save him.” 

These suggestions prevailed. Suspecting the stranger to be 
one whose evidence would point to the true criminal, himself an 
offender, he at length assented to the arrangement, and, after a 
few minutes’ further dialogue, he left the room. As he retired, 
the stranger carefully locked the door, a movement which some¬ 
what alarmed the maiden; but the respectful manner with which 
he approached her, and her own curiosity not less than interest 
in the progress of the event, kept her from the exhibition of any 
apprehensions. 

The stranger drew nigh her. His glances, though still re¬ 
spectful, were fixed, long and searchingly, upon her face. He 
seemed to study all its features, comparing them, as it would 
seem, with his own memories. At length, as with a sense of 
maidenly propriety, she sternly turned away, he addressed 
her: — 

“Miss Colleton has forgotten me, it appears, though I have 
some claim to be an old acquaintance. I, at least, have a better 
memory for my friends—1 have not forgotten her.” 

Edith looked up in astonishment, but there was no recognition 
in her glance. A feeling of mortified pride might have been 
detected in the expression of his countenance, as, with a tone 
of calm unconsciousness, she replied — 

“ You are certainly unremembered, if ever known, by me, sir. 
I am truly sorry to have forgotten one who styles himself my 
friend.” 


NEW PARTIES ON THE STAGE. 


405 


“Who was — who is—or, rather, who is now w.lling again 
to be your friend, Miss Colleton,” was the immediate reply. 

“ Yes, and so I wall gladly call you, sir, if you succeed in 
what you have promised.” 

“ I have yet promised nothing, Miss Colleton. 

“ True, true! but you say you have the powder, and surely 
would not withhold it at such a time. Oh, speak, sir! tell me 
how you can serve us all, and receive my blessings and my 
thanks for ever.” 

“The reward is great — very great — but not greater—per¬ 
haps not as great, as I may demand for my services. But we 
should not be ignorant of one another in such an affair, and at 
such a time as this. Is it true, then, that Miss Colleton has no 
memory which, at this moment, may spare me from the utter¬ 
ance of a name, which perhaps she herself would not be alto¬ 
gether willing to hear, and which it is not my policy to have 
uttered by any lips, and far less by my own 1 Think — remem¬ 
ber— lady, and let me be silent still on that one subject. Let 
no feeling of pride influence the rejection of a remembrance 
which perhaps carries with it but few pleasant reflections.” 

Again were the maiden’s eyes fixed searchingly upon the 
speaker, and again, conflicting with the searching character of 
his own glance, were they withdrawn, under the direction of a 
high sense of modest dignity. She had made the effort at 
recognition—that was evident even to him—and had made it 
in vain. 

“Entirely forgotten — well! better that than to have been 
remembered as the thing I was. Would it were possible to be 
equally forgotten by the rest — but this, too, is vain and childish. 
She must be taught to remember me.” 

Thus muttered the stranger to himself; assuming, however, 
an increased decision of manner at the conclusion, he approached 
her, and tearing from his cheeks the huge whiskers that had 
half-obscured them, he spoke in hurried accents:— 

“Look on me now, Miss Colleton—look on me now, and 
while you gaze upon features once sufficiently well known to 
your glance, let your memory but retrace the few years when it 
was your fortune, and my fate, to spend a few months in Gwin¬ 
nett county. Po you remember the time — do you remember 


400 


GUY RIVERS. 


that bold, ambitious man, who, at that time, was the claimant 
for a public honor—who was distinguished by you in a dance, 
at the ball given on that occasion — who, maddened by wine, 
and a fierce passion which preyed upon him then, like a con 
suming fire, addressed you, though a mere child, and sought yo 
for his bride, who — but I see you remember all!” 

“And are you then Creighton—Mr. Edward Creighton— 
and so changed !” And she looked upon him with an expres¬ 
sion of simple wonder. 

“Ay, that was the name once—but I have another now. 
Would you know me better — I am Guy Rivers, where the 
name of Creighton must not again be spoken. It is the name 
of a felon — of one under doom of outlawry — whom all men 
are privileged to slay. I have been hunted from society—I 
can no longer herd with my fellows — I am without kin, and 
am almost without kind. Yet, base and black with crime — 
doomed by mankind — banished all human abodes—the slave 
of fierce passions — the leagued with foul associates, I dared, in 
your girlhood, to love you; and, more daring still, I dare to 
love you now. Fear not, lady—you are Edith Colleton to me; 
and worthless, and vile, and reckless, though I have become, 
for you I can hold no thought which would behold you other 
than you are — a creature for worship rather than for love. As 
such I would have you still; and for this purpose do I seek you 
now. I know your feeling for this young man — I saw it then, 
when you repulsed me. I saw that you loved each Other, 
though neither of you were conscious of the truth. You love 
him now — you would not have him perish — I know well how 
you regard him, and I come, knowing this, to make hard con¬ 
ditions with you for his life.” 

“ Keep me no longer in suspense—speak out, Mr. Creighton” 
— she cried, gaspingly. • 

“Rivers — Rivers — I would not hear the other—it was by 
that name I was driven from my fellows.” 

“Mr. Rivers, say what can be done—what am 1 to do — 
money—thanks, all that we can give shall be yours, so that you 
save him from this fate.” 

“ And who would speak thus for me 1 What fair pleader, 


NEW PARTIES ON THE STAGE. 407 

fearless of man’s opinion—that blights or blesses, without refer¬ 
ence to right, or merit—would so far speak for me!” 

“Many — many, Mr. Rivers — I hope there are many. 
Heaven knows, though I may have rejected in my younger 
days, your attentions, I know not many for whom I would 
more willingly plead and pray than yourself. I do remember 
now your talents and high reputation, and deeply do I regret 
the unhappy fortune which has denied them their fulfilment.” 

“ Ah, Edith Colleton, these words would have saved me once 
—now they are nothing, in recompense for the hopes which are 
for ever gone. Your thoughts are gentle, and may sooth all 
spirits but my own. But sounds that lull others, lull me no 
longer. It is not the music of a rich dream, or of a pleasant 
fancy, which may beguile me into pleasure. I am dead — dead 
as the cold rock—to their influence. The storm which blighted 
me has seared, and ate into the very core. I am like the tree 
through which the worm has travelled — it still stands, and 
there is foliage upon it, but the heart is eaten out and gone. 
Your words touch me no longer as they did — I need something 
more than words and mere flatteries—flatteries so sweet even 
as those which com^from your lips — are no longer powerful to 
bind me to your service. I can save the youth — I will save 
him, though I hate him; but the conditions are fatal to your 
love for him.” 

There was much in this speech to offend and annoy the 
hearer; but she steeled herself to listen, and it cost her some 
effort to reply. 

“ I can listen — I can hear all that you may say having refer¬ 
ence to him. I know not what you may intend ; I know not what 
you may demand for your service. But name your condition. 
All in honor — all that a maiden may grant and be true to her¬ 
self, a H —all, for his life and safety.” 

“Still, I fear, Miss Colleton—your love for him is not suffi¬ 
ciently lavish to enable your liberality to keep pace with the 
extravagance of my demand—” 

“Hold, sir—on this particular there is no need of furthei 
speech. Whatever may be the extent of my regard for Ralph, 
it is enough that I am willing to do much, to sacrifice muck — 
in return for his rescue from this dreadful fate. Speak, ihere 


408 


GUY RIVERS. 


fore, your demand—spare no word — delay me, I pray, no 

longer.” 

“ Hear me, then. As Creighton, I loved you years ago — as 
Guy Rivers I love you still. The life of Ralph Colleton is for¬ 
feit—for ever forfeit—and a few days only interpose between 
him and eternity. I alone can save him—I can give him free¬ 
dom ; and, in doing so, I shall risk much, and sacrifice not a 
little. I am ready for this risk — I am prepared for every 
sacrifice—I will save him at all hazards from his doom, upon 
one condition!” 

“ Speak ! speak !” 

“ That you be mine — that you fly with me — that in the wild 
regions of the west, where I will build you a cottage and wor¬ 
ship you as my own forest divinity, you take up your abode 
with me, and be my wife. My wife!-—all forms shall be com¬ 
plied with, and every ceremony which society may call for. 
Nay, shrink not back thus—” seeing her recoil in horror and 
scorn at the suggestion—“beware how you defy me — think, 
that I have his life in my hands—think, that I can speak his 
doom or his safety—think, before you reply!” 

“There is no time necessary for thought, sir—none—none. 
It can not be. I can not comply with the conditions which you 
propose. I would die first.” 

“ And he will die too. Be not hasty, Miss Colleton—remem¬ 
ber—it is not merely your death but his—his death upon the 
gallows—” 

“ Spare me ! spare me !” 

‘The halter—the crowd — the distorted limb — the racked 
frame—” 

“ Horrible — horrible !” 

“Would you see this — know this, and reflect upon the 
shame, the mental agony, far greater than all, of such a death 
to him \ ‘ 

With a strong effort, she recovered her composure, though 
but an instant before almost convulsed — 

“ Have you no other terms, Mr. Rivers ?” 

“ None—none. Accept them, and he lives — I will free him, 
as I promise. Refuse them—deny me, and he must die, and 
nothing may save him then.” 


NEW PARTIES ON THE STAGE. 


409 


“Then he must die, sir! — we must both die—before we 
choose such terms. Sir, let me call my father. Our conference 
must end here. You have chosen a cruel office, hut I can bear 
its infliction. You have tantalized a weak heart with hope, 
only to make it despair the more. But I am now strong, sir — 
stronger than ever — and we speak no more on this subject.” 

“ Yet pause—to relent even to-morrow may be too late. To¬ 
night you must determine, or never.” 

“ I have already determined. It is impossible that I can de¬ 
termine otherwise. No more, sir !” 

“ There is one, lady — one young form — scarcely less beauti¬ 
ful than yourself, who would make the same—ay, and a far 
greater—sacrifice than this, for the safety of Ralph Colleton. 
One far less happy in his love than you, who would willingly 
die for him this hour. Would you.be less ready than she is for 
such a sacrifice 1” 

“No, not less ready for death—as I live—not less willing to 
free him with the loss of my own life. But not ready for a sac¬ 
rifice like this—not ready for this.” 

“ You iiave doomed him !” 

“ Be it so, sir. Be it so. Let me now call my father.” 

“Yet think, ere it be too late — once gone, not even your 
words shall call me back.” 

“ Believe me, I shall not desire it.” 

The firmness of the maiden was finely contrasted with the dis¬ 
appointment of the outlaw. He was not less mortified with his 
own defeat than awed by the calm and immoveable bearing, 
the sweet, even dignity, which the discussion of a subject so 
trying to her heart, and the overthrow of all hope which her 
own decision must have occasioned, had failed utterly to affect. 
He would have renewed his suggestions, but while repeating 
them, a sudden commotion in the village—the trampling of 
f cc t—the buzz of many voices, and sounds of wide-spread con¬ 
fusion, contributed to abridge an interview already quite too 
long. The outlaw rushed out of the apartment, barely recog¬ 
nising, at his departure, the presence of Colonel Colleton, whom 
his daughter had now called in. The cause of the uproar we 
reserve for another chapter. 


IS 


410 


GUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 

PROPOSED RESCUE. 

Tiih pledge which Munro had given to his niece in behalf of 
Colleton was productive of no small inconvenience to the former 
personage. Though himself unwilling—we must do him the 
justice to believe — that the youth should perish for a crime so 
completely his own, he had in him no great deal of that magnan¬ 
imous virtue, of itself sufficiently strong to have persuaded him 
to such a risk, as that which he had undertaken at the suppli¬ 
cation of Lucy. The more he reflected upon the matter, the 
more trifling seemed the consideration. With such a man, to 
reflect is simply to calculate. Money, now—the spoil or the 
steed of the traveller — would have been a far more decided 
stimulant to action. In regarding such an object, he certainly 
would have overlooked much of the danger, and have been less 
heedful of the consequences. The selfishness of the motive 
would not merely have sanctioned, but have smoothed the en¬ 
terprise; and he thought too much with the majority — allow¬ 
ing for any lurking ambition in his mind—not to perceive that 
where there is gain there must be glory. 

None of these consolatory thoughts came to him in the con¬ 
templation of his present purpose. To adventure his own life 
— perhaps to exchange places with the condemned he proposed 
to save—though, in such a risk, he only sought to rescue the 
innocent from the doom justly due to himself—was a flight of 
generous impulse somewhat above the usual aim of the land¬ 
lord; and, but for the impelling influence of his niece—an in¬ 
fluence which, in spite of his own evil habits, swayed him be¬ 
yond his consciousness—we should not now have to record the 
almost redeer ing instance in the events of his life at thif 


PROPOSED RESCUE. 411 

period — the one virtue, contrasting with, if it could not lessen 
or relieve, the long tissue of his offences. 

There were some few other influences, however — if this 
were not enough — coupled with that of his niece’s entreaty, 
which gave strength and decision to his present determination. 
Munro was not insensible to the force of superior character, 
and a large feeling of veneration led him, from the first, to ob¬ 
serve the lofty spirit and high sense of honor which distin¬ 
guished the bearing and deportment of Ralph Colleton. He 
could not but admire the native superiority which characterized 
the manner of the youth, particularly when brought into con¬ 
trast with that of Guy Rivers, for whom the same feeling had 
induced a like, though not a parallel respect, on the part of the 
landlord. 

It may appear strange to those accustomed only to a passing 
and superficial estimate of the thousand inconsistencies which 
make up that contradictory creation, the human mind, that 
such should be a feature in the character of a ruffian like Munro ; 
but, to those who examine for themselves, avc shall utter noth¬ 
ing novel when we assert, that a respect for superiority of men¬ 
tal and even mere moral attribute, enters largely into the habit 
of the ruffian generally. The murderer is not unfrequently 
found to possess benevolence as well as veneration in a high 
degree; and the zealots of all countries and religions are al¬ 
most invariably creatures of strong and violent passions, to 
which the extravagance of their zeal and devotion furnishes an 
outlet, which is not always innocent in its direction or effects. 
Thus, in their enthusiasm — which is only a minor madness — 
whether the Hindoo bramin or the Spanish bigot, the English 
roundhead or the follower of the “ only true faith” at Mecca, 
be understood, it is but a word and a blow — though the word 
be a hurried prayer to the God of their adoration, and the blow 
be aimed with all the malevolence of hell at the bosom of a 
fellow-creature. There is no greater inconsistency in the one 
character than in the other. The temperament which, under 
false tuition, makes the zealot, and drives him on to the perpe¬ 
tration of wholesale murder, while uttering a prayer to the 
Deity, prompts the same individual who, as an assassin or a 
highwayman, cuts j our throat, and picks your pockot, and at 


GUY RIVERS. 


i!2 

tlie next moment bestows his ill-gotten gains without reserva 
tion upon the starving beggar by the wayside. 

There was yet another reason which swayed Munro not a 
little in his determination, if possible, to save the youth — and 
this was a lurking sentiment of hostility to Rivers. His pride, 
of late, on many occasions, had taken alarm at the frequent en¬ 
croachments of his comrade upon its boundaries.- The too 
much repeated display of that very mental superiority in his 
companion, which had so much fettered him, had aroused his 
own latent sense of independence ; and the utterance of sundry 
pungent rebukes on the part of Rivers had done much towards 
provoking within him a new sentiment of dislike for that per¬ 
son, which gladly availed itself of the first legitimate occasion 
for exercise and development. The very superiority which 
commanded, and which he honored, he hated for that very rea¬ 
son ; and, in our analysis of moral dependence, we may add, 
that, in Greece, and the mere Ilob of the humble farmhouse, 
Munro might have been the countryman to vote Aristides into 
banishment because of his reputation for justice. The barrier 
is slight, the space short, the transition easy, from one to the 
other extreme of injustice; and the peasant who voted for the 
banishment of the just man, in another sphere and under other 
circumstances, would have been a Borgia or a Catiline. With 
this feeling in his bosom, Munro was yet unapprized of its ex¬ 
istence. It is not with the man, so long hurried forward by 
his impulses as at last to become their creature, to analyze 
either their character or his own. Vice, though itself a mon¬ 
ster, is yet the slave of a thousand influences, not absolutely 
vicious in themselves; and their desires it not uncommonly 
performs when blindfolded. It carries the knife, it strikes the 
blow, but is not always the chooser of its own victim. 

But, fortunately for Ralph Colleton, whatever and how many 
or how few were the impelling motives leading to this deter¬ 
mination, Munro had decided upon the preservation of his life ; 
and, with that energy of will, which, in a rash office, or one 
violative of the laws, he had always heretofore displayed, he 
permitted no time to escape him unemployed for the contem¬ 
plated purpose. His mind immediately addressed itself to its 
chosen duty, and, in one disguise or another, and those perpet- 


PROPOSED RESCUE. 


413 


Rally changing, he perambulated the village, making his ar¬ 
rangements for the desired object. The difficulties in his way 
were not trifling in character nor few in number; and the 
greatest of these was that of finding coadjutors willing to second 
him. He felt assured that he could confide in none of his 
well-known associates, who were to a man the creatures of 
Rivers; that outlaw, by a liberality which seemed to disdain 
money, and yielding every form of indulgence, having acquired 
over them an influence almost amounting to personal affection. 
Fortunately for his purpose, Rivers dared not venture much 
into the village or its neighborhood; therefore, though free 
from any fear of obstruction from one in whose despite his 
whole design was undertaken, Munro was yet. not a little at a 
loss for his co-operation. To whom, at that moment, could he 
turn, without putting himself in the power of an enemy] 
Thought only raised up new difficulties in his way, and in 
utter despair of any better alternative, though scarcely willing 
to trust to one of whom he deemed so lightly, his eyes were 
compelled to rest, in the last hope, upon the person of the ped- 
ler, Bunce. 

Bunce, if the reader will remember, had, upon his release 
from prison, taken up his abode temporarily in the village. 
Under the protection now afforded by the presence of the 
judge, and the other officers of justice—not to speak of the 
many strangers from the adjacent parts, whom one cause or 
another had brought to the place—he had presumed to exhibit 
his person with much more audacity and a more perfect free¬ 
dom from apprehension than he had ever shown in the same 
region before. He now—for ever on the go — thrust himself 
fearlessly into every cot and corner. No place escaped the search¬ 
ing analysis of his glance ; and, in a scrutiny so nice, it was not long 
before he had made the acquaintance of everybody and eve¬ 
rything at all worthy, in that region, to be known. He could 
now venture to jostle Pippin with impunity; for, since the 
trial in which he had so much blundered, the lawyer had lost 
no small portion of the confidence and esteem of his neighbors. 
Accused of the abandonment of his client—an offence particu¬ 
larly monstrous in the estimation of those who are sufficiently 
interested to acquire a personal feeling in such matters — and 


414 


GUY RIVERS. 


compelled, as he had been — a worse feature still in the estima¬ 
tion of the same class—to “eat his own words”—he had lost 
caste prodigiously in the last few days, and his fine sayings 
lacked their ancient flavor in the estimation of his neighbors. 
His speeches sunk below par along with himself; and the.ped- 
ler, in his contumelious treatment of the disconsolate jurist, 
simply obeyed and indicated the direction of the popular opin¬ 
ion. One or two rude replies, and a nudge which the elbow 
of Bunce, effected in the ribs of the lawyer, did provoke the 
latter so far as to repeat his threat on the subject of the prose¬ 
cution for the horse; but the pedler snapped his fingers in his 
face as he did so, and bade him defiance. He also reminded 
Pippin of the certain malfeasances to which he had referred 
previously, and the consciousness of the truth was sufficiently 
strong and awkward to prevent his proceeding to any further 
measure of disquiet with the offender. Thus, without fear, and 
with an audacity of which he was not a little proud, Bunce per¬ 
ambulated the village and its neighborhood, in a mood and 
with a deportment he had never ventured upon before in that 
quarter. 

He had a variety of reasons for lingering in the village seem¬ 
ingly in a state of idleness. Bunce was a long-sighted fellow, 
and beheld the promise which it held forth, at a distance, of a 
large and thriving business in the neighborhood; and he had too 
much sagacity not to be perfectly aware of the advantage, to a 
tradesman, resulting from a prior occupation of the ground. lie 
had not lost everything in the conflagration which destroyed his 
cart-body and calicoes; for, apart from sundry little debts due 
him in the surrounding country, he had carefully preserved 
around his body, in a black silk handkerchief, a small wallet, 
holding a moderate amount of the best bank paper. Bunce. 
among other things, had soon learned to discriminate between 
good and bad paper, and the result of his education in this re¬ 
spect assured him of the perfect integrity of the three hundred 
and odd dollars which kept themselves snugly about his waist 
—ready to be expended for clocks and calicoes, horn buttons, 
and wooden combs, knives, and negro-handkerchiefs, whenever 
their proprietor should determine upon a proper whereabout in 
which to fix himself. Bunce had grown tired of peddling — 


PROPOSED RESCUE. 


415 


the trade was not less uncertain than fatiguing. Besides, trav¬ 
elling so much among the southrons, he had imbibed not a few 
of their prejudices against his vocation, and, to speak the truth, 
had grown somewhat ashamed of his present mode of life. He 
was becoming rapidly aristocratic, as we may infer from a very 
paternal and somewhat patronizing epistle, which he despatched 
about this time to his elder brother and copartner, Ichabod Bunce, 
who carried on his portion of the business at their native place 
in Meriden, Connecticut. He told him, in a manner and vein 
not less lofty than surprising to his coadjutor, that it “ would 
not be the thing, no how, to keep along, lock and lock with him, 
in the same gears.” It was henceforward his “ idee to drive on 
his own hook. Times warn’t as they used to beand the fact 
was — he did not say it in so many words — the firm of Ichabod 
Btince and Brother was scarcely so creditable to the latter per¬ 
sonage as he should altogether desire among his southern friends 
and acquaintances. He “ guessed, therefore, best haul off,” and 
each — here Bunce showed his respect for his new friends by 
quoting their phraseology — “must paddle his own canoe.” 

We have minced this epistle, and have contented ourselves 
with providing a scrap, here and there, to the reader — despair¬ 
ing, as we utterly do, to gather from memory a full description 
of a performance so perfectly unique in its singular compound 
of lofty vein, with the patois and vulgar contractions of his na¬ 
tive, and those common to his adopted country. 

It proved to his more staid and veteran brother, that Jared 
was the only one of his family likely to get above his bread and 
business; but,while he lamented the wanderings and follies of 
his brother, he could not help enjoying a sentiment of pride as 
he looked more closely into the matter. “ Who knows,” thought 
the clockmaker to himself, “ but that Jared, who is a monstrous 
sly fellow, will pick up some southern heiress, with a thousand 
blackies, and an hundred acres of prime cotton-land to each, and 
thus ennoble the blood of the Bunces by a rapid ascent, through 
the various grades of office in a sovereign state, until a seat in 
Congress — in the cabinet itself—receives him;” — and Icha¬ 
bod grew more than ever pleased and satisfied with the idea, 
when he reflected that Jared had all along been held to possess 
a goodly person, and a very fair development of the parts of 


416 


GUY RIVERS. 


speech. He even ventured to speculate upon tlie possibility of 
Jared passing into the White House—the dawn of that era 
having already arrived, which left nobody safe from the crown¬ 
ing honors of the republic. 

Whether the individual of whom so much was expected, him¬ 
self entertained any such anticipations or ideas, we do not pre¬ 
tend to say; but, certain it is, that the southern candidate for 
the popular suffrage could never have taken more pains to ex¬ 
tend his acquaintance or to ingratiate himself among the people, 
than did our worthy friend the pedler. In the brief time which 
he had passed in the village after the arrest of Colleton, he had 
contrived to have something to say or do with almost every¬ 
body in it. He had found a word for his honor the judge; and 
having once spoken with that dignitary, Bunce Avas not the 
man to fail at future recognition. No distance of manner, no 
cheerless response, to the modestly urged or moderate sugges¬ 
tion, could prompt him to forego an acquaintance. With the 
jurors he had contrived to enjoy a sup of whiskey at the tavern 
bar-room, and had actually, and with a manner the most adroit, 
gone deeply into the distribution of an entire packet of steel- 
pens, one of which he accommodated to a reed, and to the fin¬ 
gers of each of the worthy twelve, who made the panel on that 
occasion—taking care, however, to assure them of the value of 
the gift, by saying, that if he were to sell the article, twenty- 
five cents each would be his lowest price, and he could scarcely 
save himself at that. But this was not all. Having seriously 
determined upon abiding at the south, he ventured upon some 
few of the practices prevailing in that region, and on more than 
one occasion, a gallon of whiskey had circulated “ free gratis,” 
and “pro bono imblico” he added, somewhat maliciously, at the 
cost of our worthy tradesman. These things, it may not be 
necessary to say, had elevated that worthy into no moderate 
importance among those around him; and, that he himself was 
not altogether unconscious of the change, it may be remarked 
that an ugly kink, or double in his back—the consequence of 
his pack and past humility—had gone down wonderfully, keep¬ 
ing due pace in its descent with the progress of his upward man¬ 
ifestations. 

Such was the somewhat novel position of Bunce, in the vil- 


PROPOSED RESCUE. 


417 


lage and neighborhood of Chestatee, when the absolute necessity 
of the case prompted Munro’s application to him for assistance 
in the proposed extrication of Ralph Colleton. The landlord 
had not been insensible to the interest which the pedlcr had ta¬ 
ken in the youth’s fortune, and not doubting his perfect sympa¬ 
thy with the design in view, he felt the fewer scruples in ap¬ 
proaching him for the purpose. Putting on, therefore, the 
disguise, which, as an old woman, had effectually concealed his 
true person from Bunce on a previous occasion, he waited until 
evening had set in fairly, and then proceeded to the abode of 
him he sought. 

The pedler was alone in his cottage, discussing, most proba¬ 
bly, his future designs, and calculating to a nicety the various 
profits of each premeditated branch of his future business. 
Munro’s disguise was intended rather to facilitate his progress 
without detection through the village, than to impose upon the 
pedler merely; but it was not unwise that he should be ignorant 
also of the person with whom he dealt. Affecting a tone of voice, 
therefore, which, however masculine, was yet totally unlike his 
own, the landlord demanded a private interview, which was 
readily granted, though, as the circumstance was unusual, with 
some few signs of trepidation. Bunce was no lover of old wo¬ 
men, nor, indeed, of young ones either. lie was habitually and 
constitutionally cold and impenetrable on the subject of all pas¬ 
sions, save that of trade, and would rather have sold a dress of 
calico, than have kissed the prettiest damsel in creation. His 
manner, to the old woman who appeared before him, seemed 
that of one who had an uncomfortable suspicion of having 
pleased rather more than he intended; and it was no small re¬ 
lief, therefore, the first salutation being over, when the masculine 
tones reassured him. Munro, without much circumlocution, im¬ 
mediately proceeded to ask whether he was willing to lend a 
hand for the help of Colleton, and to save him from the gal¬ 
lows ? 

“ Colleton ! — save Master Colleton ! — do tell — is that what 
you mean V* 

“ It is. Are you the man to help your friend — will you make 
one along with others who are going to try for it V* 

“Well, now, don’t be rash; give a body time to consider 

18 * 


418 


GUY RIVERS. 


It’s pesky full of trouble; dangerous, too. It’s so strange!—” 
and the pedler showed himself a little bewildered by the sud¬ 
den manner in which the subject had been broached. 

“There’s little time to be lost, Bunce: if we don’t set to 
work at once, we needn’t set to work at all. Speak out, man! 
will you join us, now or never, to save the young fellow 1” 

With something like des^**'ation in his manner, as if he scru¬ 
pled to commit himself too far, yet had the will to contribute 
considerably to the object, the pedler replied : — 

“ Save the young fellow ? well, I guess I will, if you’ll jest 
say what’s to be done. I’ll lend a hand, to be sure, if there’s 
no trouble to come of it. He’s a likely chap, and not so stiff 
neither, though I did count him rather higli-headed at first; but 
after that, he sort a smoothed down, and now I don’t know no¬ 
body I’d sooner help jest now out of the slush : but I can’t see 
how we’re to set about it.” 

“ Can you fight, Bunce ? Are you willing to knock down and 
drag out, when there’s need for it V* 

“ Why, if I was fairly listed, and if so be there’s no law agin 
it. I don’t like to run agin the law, no how ; and if you could 
get a body clear on it, why, and there’s no way to do the thing 
no other how, I guess I shouldn’t stand too long to consider 
when it’s to help a friend.” 

“ It may be no child’s play, Bunce, and there must be stout 
heart and free hand. One mustn’t stop for trifles in such cases; 
and, as for the law, when a man’s friend’s in danger, he must 
make his own law.” 

“ That wan’t my edication, no how; my principles goes agin 
it. I must think about it. I must have a little time to con¬ 
sider.” But the landlord saw no necessity for consideration, 
and, fearful that the scruples of Bunce would be something too 
strong, lie proceeded to smooth away the difficulty. 

“After all, Bunce,the probability is, we shall be able to man¬ 
age the affair without violence : so we shall try, for I like blows 
just as little as anybody else; but it’s best, you know, to make 
ready for the worst. Nobody knows how things will turn up; 
and if it comes to the scratch, why, one mustn’t mind knocking 
a fellow on the head if he stands in the way.” 

“No, to )e sure not. ’Twould be foolish to stop and think 


PROPOSED RESCUE. 419 

about what’s law, and wliat’s not law, and be knocked down 
yourself.” 

“ Certainly, you’re right, Bunce; that’s only reason.” 

“And yet, mister, I guess you wouldn’t want that I should 
know your raal name, now, would you ? or maybe you’re going 
to tell it to me now ? Well—” 

“To the business: what matters it whether I have a name 
or not ? I have a fist, you see, and—” 

“Yes, yes, I see,” exclaimed he of the notions, slightly re¬ 
treating, as Munro, suiting the action to the word, thrust, rather 
more closely to the face of his companion than was altogether 
encouraging, the ponderous mass which courtesy alone would 
consider a fist— 

“Well, I don’t care, you see, to know the name, misterj but 
somehow it raally aint the thing, no how, to be mistering no¬ 
body knows who. I see you aint a woman plain enough from 
your face, and I pretty much conclude you must be a man; 
though you have got on — what’s that, now? It’s a kind of 
calico, I guess; but them’s not fast colors, friend. I should 
say, now, you had been taken in pretty much by that bit of 
goods. It aint the kind of print, now, that’s not afeard of 
washing.” 

“And if I have been taken in, Bunce, in these calicoes, you’re 
the man that has done it,” said the landlord, laughing. “ This 
piece was sold by you into my own hands, last March was a 
year, when you came back from the Cherokces.” 

“Now, don’t! Well, I guess there must be some mistake; 
you aint sure, now, friend : might be some other dealer that you 
bought from ?” 

“None other than yourself, Bunce. You are the man, and I 
can bring a dozen to prove it on you.” 

“Well, I ’spose what you say’s true, and tl at jest let’s me 
know how to mister you now, ’cause, you see, I do recollect 
now all about who I sold that bit of goods to that season.” 

The landlord had been overreached; and, amused with the 
ingenuity of the trader, he contented himself with again lifting 
the huge fist in a threatening manner, though the smile which 
accompanied the action fairly deprived it of its terrors. 

“Well, well,” said the landlord, “we burn daylight in such 


4i!0 


GUY RIVERS. 


talk as this. I come to you as the only man who will or can 
help me in this matter; and Lucy Munro tells me you will — 
you made her some such promise.” 

“ Well, now, I guess I must toe the chalk, after all; though, 
to say truth, I don’t altogether remember giving any such prom¬ 
ise. It must be right, though, if she says it; and sartain she’s 
a sweet body — I’ll go my length for her any day.” 

“You’ll not lose by it; and now hear my plan. You know 
Brooks, the jailer, and his bulldog brother-in-law, Tongs? I 
saw you talking with both of them yesterday.” 

“ Guess you’re right. Late acquaintance, though ; they aint 
neither on ’em to my liking.” 

“ Enough for our purpose. Tongs is a brute who will drink 
as long as he can stand, and some time after it. Brooks is ra¬ 
ther shy of it, but he will drink enough to stagger him, for he 
is pretty weak-headed. We have only to manage, these fellows, 
and there’s the end of it. They keep the jail.” 

“ Yes, I know; but you don’t count young Brooks?” 

“ Oh, he’s a mere boy. Don’t matter about him. He’s easily 
managed. Now hear to my design. Provide your jug of whis¬ 
key, with plenty of eggs and sugar, so that they shan’t want 
anything, and get them here. Send for Tongs at once, and let 
him only know what’s in the wind; then ask Brooks, and he 
will be sure to force him to come. Say nothing of the boy; 
let him stay or come, as they think proper. To ask all might 
make them suspicious. They’ll both come.* They never yet 
resisted a spiritual temptation. When here, ply them well, and 
then we shall go on according to circumstances. Brooks car¬ 
ries the keys along with him: get him once in for it, and I’ll 
take them from him. If he resists, or any of them —” 

“ Knock ’em down ?” 

“Ay, quickly as you say it!” 

“ Well, but how if they do not bring the boy, and they leave 
him in the jail ?” 

“ What then ! Can’t we knock him down too ?” 

“ But, then, they’ll fix the whole business on my head. Won’t 
Brooks and Tongs say where they got drunk, and then shan’t I 
be in a scant fixin’ ?” 

“They dare not. They won’t confess themselves drunk — 


PROPOSED RESCUE. 


421 


it’s as much as their place is worth. They will say nothing till 
they get sober, and then they’ll get up some story that will hurt 
nobody.” 

“ But—” 

“ But what ? will you never cease to but against obstacles ? 
Are you a man—are you ready—bent to do what you can? 
Speak out, and let me know if I can depend on you,” exclaimed 
the landlord, impatiently. 

“Now, don’t be in a passion ! You’re as soon off as a fly- 
machine, and a thought sooner. Why, didn’t I say, now, I’d 
go my length for the young gentleman ? And I’m sure I’m 
ready, and aint at all afeared, no how. I only did want to say 
that, if the thing takes wind, as how it raaly stood, it spiles all 
my calkilations. I couldn’t ’stablish a consarn here. I guess, 
for a nation long spell of time after.” 

“And what then ? where’s your calculations ? Get the young 
fellow clear, and what will his friends do for you ? Think of 
that, Bunce. You go oft' to Carolina with him, and open store 
in his parts, and he buys from you all he wants — his negro- 
cloths, his calicoes, his domestics, and stripes, and everything. 
Then his family, and friends and neighbors, under his recom¬ 
mendation— they all buy from you ; and then the presents they 
will make you—the fine horses—and who knows but even a 
plantation and negroes may all come out of this one transac¬ 
tion ?” 

“To be sure—who knows? Well, things do look tempta- 
tious enough, and there’s a mighty deal of reason, now, in what 
you say. Large business that, I guess, in the long run. Aint 
I ready ? Let’s see — a gallon of whiskey — aint a gallon a 
heap too much for only three people ?” 

“ Better have ten than want. Then there must be pipes, to¬ 
bacco, cigars; and mind, when they get well on in drinking, I 
shall look to you through that window. Be sure and come to 
me then. Make some pretence, for, as Brooks may be slow and 
cautious, I shall get something to drop into his liquor — a little 
mixture which I shall hand you.” 

“ What mixture ? No pizen, I hope ! I don’t go that, not I 
— no pizening for me.” 

“ Pshaw • fool — nonsense ! If I wanted their lives, could 1 


422 


GUY RIVERS. 


not choose a shorter method, and a weapon wln.h I could more 
truly rely upon than I ever can upon you ? It is to make them 
sleep that I shall give you the mixture.” 

“Oh, laudnum. Well, now, why couldn’t you say laudnum 
at first, without frightening people so with your mixtures? — 
There’s no harm in laudnum, for my old aunt Tabitha chaws 
laudnum-gum jest as other folks chaws tobacco.” 

“Well, that’s all—it’s only to get them asleep sooner. See 
now about your men at once. We have no time to lose; and, 
if this contrivance fails, I must look about for another. It must 
be done to-night, or it can not be done at all. In an hour I 
shall return; and hope, by that time, to find you busy with 
their brains. Ply them well — don’t be slow Or stingy — and 
see that you have enough of whiskey. Here’s money—have 
everything ready.” 

The pedler took the money—why not? it was only proper 
to spoil the Egyptians—and, after detailing fully his plans, 
Munro left him. Bunce gave himself but little time and less 
trouble for reflection. The prospects of fortune which the land¬ 
lord had magnified to his vision, were quite too enticing to be 
easily resisted by one whose morale was not of a sort to hold its 
ground against his habitual cupidity and newly-awakened am¬ 
bition ; and having provided everything, as agreed upon, neces¬ 
sary for the accommodation of the jailer and his assistant, Bunce 
sallied forth for the more important purpose of getting his com¬ 
pany. 


SACK AND SUGAR. 


*23 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

SACK AND SUGAR. 

The task of getting the desired guests, as Munro had assured 
him, was ly no means difficult, and our pedler was not long in 
reporting progress. Tongs, a confirmed toper, was easily per¬ 
suaded to anything that guarantied hard drinking. He luxuri¬ 
ated in the very idea of a debauch. Brooks, his brother-in-law, 
was a somewhat better and less pregnable person; but he was 
a widower, had been a good deal with Tongs, and, what with 
the accustomed loneliness of the office which he held, and the 
gloomy dwelling in which it required he should live, he found 
it not such an easy matter to resist the temptation of social en¬ 
joyment, and all the pleasant associations of that good-fellow¬ 
ship, which Bunce had taken care to depict before the minds of 
both parties. The attractions of Bunce himself, by-the-way, 
tended, not less than the whiskey and cigars, to persuade the 
jailer, and to neutralize most of the existing prejudices current 
among those around him against his tribe. He had travelled 
much, and was no random observer. He had seen a great deal, 
as well of human nature as of places; could tell a good story, 
in good spirit; and was endowed with a dry, sneaking humor, 
that came out unawares upon his hearers, and made them laugh 
frequently in spite of themselves. 

Bunce had been now sufficiently long in the village to enable 
those about him to come at a knowledge of his parts; and his 
accomplishments, in the several respects referred to, were by 
this time generally well understood. The inducement was suf¬ 
ficiently strong with the jailer; and, at length, having secured 
the main entrance of the jail carefully, he strapped the key to 
a leathern girdle, which he wore about him, lodging it in the 
breast-pocket of his coat, where he conceived it perfectly safe. 


424 


GUY RIVERS. 


he prepared to go along with his worthy brother-in-law. Nor 
was the younger Brooks forgotten. Being a tall, good-looking 
lad of sixteen, Tongs insisted it was high time he should appear 
among men; and the invitation of the pedler was opportune, as 
affording a happy occasion for his initiation into some of those 
practices, esteemed, by a liberal courtesy, significant of man¬ 
liness. 

With everything in proper trim, Bunce stood at the entrance 
of his lodge, ready to receive them. The preliminaries were 
soon despatched, and we behold them accordingly, all four, 
comfortably seated around a huge oaken table in the centre of 
the apartment. There was the jug, and there the tibsses— the 
sugar, the peppermint, the nutmegs — the pipes and tobacco — 
all convenient, and sufficiently tempting for the unscrupulous. 
The pedler did the honors with no little skill, and Tongs 
plunged headlong into the debauch. The whiskey was never 
better, and found, for this reason, anything but security where 
it stood. Glass after glass, emptied only to be replenished, 
attested the industrious hospitality of the host, not less than its 
own excellence. Tongs, averaging three draughts to one of his 
companion’s, was soon fairly under way in his progress to that 
state of mental self-glorification in which the world ceases to 
have vicissitudes, and the animal realizes the abstractions of an 
ancient philosophy, and denies all pain to life. 

Brooks, however, though not averse to the overcoming ele¬ 
ment, had more of that vulgar quality of prudence than his 
brother-in-law, and far more than was thought amiable in the 
opinion of the pedler. For some time, therefore, he drank with 
measured scrupulousness; and it was with no small degree of 
anxiety that Bunce plied him with the bottle — complaining of 
his unsociableness, and watching, with the intensity of any other 
experimentalist, the progress of his scheme upon him. As for 
the lad — the younger Brooks — it was soon evident that, once 
permitted, and even encouraged to drink, as he had been, by 
his superiors, he would not, after a little while, give much if 
any inconvenience to the conspirators. The design of the ped¬ 
ler was considerably advanced by Tongs, who, once intoxicated 
himself, was not slow in the endeavor to bring all around him 
under the same influence 


SACK AND SUGAR. 


425 


“ Drink, Brooks—drink, old fellow,” he exclaimed; “ as yo;; 
are a true man, drink, and don’t fight shy of the critter ! Whis- 
key, my boy — old Monongahely like this, I say—whiskey is 
wife and children — house and horse — lands and niggers — lib¬ 
erty and [hiccup] plenty to live on! Don’t you see how I 
drive ahead, and don’t care for the hind wheels ? It’s all owing 
to whiskey ! Grog, T say — Hark ye, Mr. Pedler—grog, I say, 
is the wheels of life : it carries a man for'ad. Why don t men 
go for'ad in the world ? What’s the reason now ? I’ll tell you. 
They’re afeared. Well, now, who’s afeared when lie’s got a 
broadside of whiskey in him? Nobody — nobody’s afeared but 

you — you, Ben Brooks, you’re a d-d crick — crick — you’re 

always afeared of something, or nothing; for, after all, when¬ 
ever you’re afeared of something, it turns out to be nothing! 
All ’cause you don’t drink like a man. That’s his cha-cha-nzc£- 
ter, Mr. Bunce; and it’s all owing ’cause he won’t drink!” 

“ Guess there’s no sparing of reason in that bit of argument, 
now, I tell you, Mr. Tongs. Bless my heart — it’s no use talk¬ 
ing, no how, but I’d a been clean done up, dead as a door-nail, if 
it hadn’t been for drink. Strong drink makes strong. Many’s 
the time, and the freezing cold, and the hard travelling in bad 
roads, and other dreadful fixins I’ve seed, would soon ha’ settled 
me up, if it hadn’t been for that same good stuff there, that Mas¬ 
ter Brooks does look as if he was afeared on. Now, don’t be 
afeared, Master Brooks. There’s no teeth in whiskey, and it 
never bites nobody.” 

“ No,” said Brooks, with the utmost simplicity; “ only when 
they take too much.” 

“ How ?” said the pedler, looking as if the sentence contained 
some mysterious meaning. Brooks might have explained, but 
for Tongs, who dashed in after this fashion :— 

“ And who takes too much ? You don’t mean to say I takes 
too much, Ben Brooks. I’d like to hear the two-legged critter, 
now, who’d say I takes more of the stuff than does me good. I 
drinks in reason, for the benefit of my health ; and jest, you see, 
as a sort of medicine, Mr. Bunce; and, Brooks, you knows I 
never takes a drop more than is needful.” 

“Sometimes—sometimes, Tongs, you know you ain’t alto¬ 
gether right under it—now and then you take a leetle too much 


426 


GUY RIVERS. 


for your good/' was the mild response of Brooks, to the almost 
fierce speech of his less scrupulous brother-in-law. The latter, 
thus encountered, changed his ground with singular rapidity. 

“Well, by dogs! — and what of that? — and who is it says I 
shan’t, if it’s my notion ? I’d like now to see the boy that’ll 
stand up agin me and make such a speech. Who says I shan’t 
take what I likes—and that I takes more than is good for me? 
Does you say so, Mr. Bunce ?” 

“ No, thank ye, no. How should I say what ain’t true ? You 
don’t take half enough, now, it’s my idee, neither on you. It’s 
all talk and no cider, and that I call monstrous dry work. Come, 
pass round the bottle. Here’s to you, Master Tongs—Master 
Brooks, I drink your very good health. But fill up, fill up — you 
ain’t got nothing in your tumbler.” 

“No, he’s a sneak—you’re a sneak, Brooks, if you don’t fill 
up to the hub. Go the whole hog, boy, and don’t twist your 
mouth as if the stuff was physic. It’s what I call nation good, 
now ; no mistake in it, I tell you.” 

“Hah! that’s a true word—there’s no mistake in this stuff. 
It is jest now what I calls ginywine.” 

“ True Monongahely, Master Bunce. Whoever reckoned to 
find a Yankee pedler with a raal good taste for Monongahely ? 
Give us your fist, Mr. Bunce; I see you know’s what’s'what. 
You ain’t been among us for nothing. You’ve larned something 
by travelling; and, by dogs! you’ll come to be something yit, 
if you live long enough — if so be you can only keep clear of 
the old range.” 

The pedler winced under the equivocal compliments of his 
companion, but did not suffer anything of this description to in¬ 
terfere with the vigorous prosecution of his design. He had the 
satisfaction to perceive that Brooks had gradually accommodated 
himself not a little to the element in which his brother-in-law, 
Tongs, was already floating happily; and the boy, his son, al¬ 
ready wore the features of one over whose senses tl e strong 
liquor was momentarily obtaining the mastery. But these signs 
did not persuade him into any relaxation of his labors; on the 
contrary, encouraged by success, he plied the draughts more 
frequently and freely than before, and with additional evidence 
of the influence o ' the potations upon those who drank, when he 


SACK AND SUGAR. 


427 


found that he was enabled, unperceived, to deposit the contents 
of his own tumbler, in most instances, under the table around 
which they gathered. In the cloud of smoke encircling them, 
and sent up from their several pipes, Bunce could perceive the 
face of his colleague in the conspiracy peering in occasionally 
upon the assembly, and at length, on some slight pretence, he 
approached the aperture agreeably to the given signal, and re¬ 
ceived from the hands of the landlord a vial containing a strong 
infusion of opium, which he placed cautiously in his bosom, and 
awaited the moment of more increased stupefaction to employ 
it. So favorably had the liquor operated by this time upon the 
faculties of all, that the elder Brooks grew garrulous and full of 
jest at the expense of his son — who now, completely overcome, 
had sunk down with his head upon the table in a profound slum¬ 
ber. The pedler joined, as well as Tongs, in the merriment — 
this latter personage, by the way, having now put himself com¬ 
pletely under the control of the ardent spirit, and exhibiting all 
the appearance of a happy madness, lie howled like the wolf 
imitated sundry animals, broke out into catches of song, which 
he invariably failed to finish, and, at length, grappling his 
brother-in-law, Brooks, around the neck, with both arms, as he 
sat beside him, he swore by all that was strong in Monongahely , 
he should give them a song 

“ That’s jest my idee, now, Master Tongs. A song is a main 
fine thing, now, to fill up the chinks. First a glass, then a puff 
or two, and then a song. 

Brooks, who, in backwood parlance, was “ considerably up a 
stump”—that is to say, half drunk—after a few shows of re¬ 
sistance, and the utterance of some feeble scruples, which were 
all rapidly set aside by his companions, proceeded to pour forth 
the rude melody which follows:— 

THE HOW-D’YE-DO BOY. 

“ For a how-d’ye-do boy, ’tis pleasure enough 
To have a sup of such goodly stuff— 

To float away in a sky of fog, 

And swim the while in a sea of grog; 

So, high or low, 

Let the world go, 

The how-d’ye-do boy don’t care for it — no — no — no — no.” 


428 


GUY RIVERS. 


Tongs, who seemed to be familiar with the uncouth dithyram 
bic, joined in the chorus, with a tumultuous discord, producing 
a most admirable effect; the pedler dashing in at the conclusion, 
and shouting the Jinale with prodigious compass of voice. The 
song proceeded:— 

“ For a how-d’ye-do boy, who smokes and drinks, 

He does not care who cares or thinks ; 

Would Grief deny him to laugh and sing, 

He knocks her down with a single sling — 

So, high or low, 

Let the world go, 

The how-d’ye-do boy don’t care for it — no — no — no — no. 

“ The h> w-d’ye-do boy is a boy of the night — 

It brings no c*old, and it does not fright; 

He buttons his coat and laughs at the shower, 

And he has a song for the darkest hour — 

So, high or low, 

Let the world go, 

The how-d’ye-do boy don’t care for it—no — no — no — no.” 

The song gave no little delight to all parties. Tongs shout¬ 
ed, the pedler roared applause, and such was the general satis¬ 
faction, that it was no difficult thing to persuade Brooks to the 
demolition of a bumper, which Bunee adroitly proposed to the 
singer’s own health. It was while the hilarity thus produced 
was at its loudest, that the pedler seized the chance to pour a 
moderate portion of the narcotic into the several glasses of his 
companions, while a second time filling them; but, ’unfortunate¬ 
ly for himself, not less than the design in view, just at this mo¬ 
ment Brooks grew awkwardly conscious of his own increasing 
weakness, having just reason enough left to feel that he had al¬ 
ready drunk too much. With a considerable show of resolution, 
therefore, he thrust away the glass so drugged for his benefit, 
and declared his determination to do no more of that business. 
He withstood all the suggestions of the pedler on the subject, 
and the affair began to look something less than hopeless when 
he proceeded to the waking up of his son, who, overcome by the 
liquor, was busily employed in a profound sleep, with his head 
upon the table. 

Tongs, who had lost nearly all the powers of action, though 


SACK AND SUGAR. 


129 


retaining not a few of his parts of speech, now came in fortu¬ 
nately to the aid of the rather-discomfited pedler. Pouring 
forth a volley of oaths, in which his more temperate brother- 
in-law was denounced as a mean-spirited critter, who couldn’t 
drink with his friend or fight with his enemy, he made an inef¬ 
fectual effort to grapple furiously with the offender, while he 
more effectually arrested his endeavor to waken up his son. It 
is well, perhaps, that his animal man lacked something of its 
accustomed efficiency, and resolutely refused all co-operation 
with his mood ; or, it is more than probable, such was his wrath, 
that his more staid brother-in-law would have been subjected 
to some few personal tests of blow and buffet. The proceed¬ 
ings throughout suggested to the mind of the pedler a mode of 
executing his design, by proposing a bumper all round, with the 
view of healing the breach between the parties, and as a final 
draught preparatory to breaking up. 

A suggestion so reasonable could not well be resisted ; and, 
with the best disposition in the world toward sobriety, Brooks 
was persuaded to assent to the measure. Unhappily, however, 
for the pedler, the measure was so grateful to Tongs, that, be¬ 
fore the former could officiate, the latter, with a desperate effort, 
reached forward, and, possessing himself of his own -glass, he 
thrust another, which happened to be the only undrugged one, 
and which Bunce had filled for himself, into the grasp of the 
jailer. The glass designed for Brooks was now in the pedler’s 
own hands, and no time was permitted him for reflection. With 
a doubt as to whether he had not got hold of the posset meant 
for his neighbor, Bunce was yet unable to avoid the difficulty; 
and, in a moment, in good faith, the contents of the several 
glasses were fairly emptied by their holders. There was a 
pause of considerable duration; the several parties sank back 
quietly into their scats; and, supposing from appearances that 
the effect of the drug had been complete, the pedler, though 
feeling excessively stupid and strange, had yet recollection 
enough to give the signal to his comrade. A moment only 
elapsed, when Munro entered the apartment, seemingly unper¬ 
ceived by all but the individual who had called him; and, as 
an air of considerable vacancy and repose overspread all the 
company he naturally enough concluded the potion had taken 


430 


GUY RIVERS. 


due hold of the senses of the one whom it was his chief object 
to overcome. Without hesitation, therefore, and certainly ask¬ 
ing no leave, he thrust one hand into the bosom of the worthy 
jailer, while the other w T as employed in taking a sure hold of 
his collar. To his great surprise, however, he found that his 
man suffered from no lethargy, though severely bitten by the 
drink. Brooks made fierce resistance; though nothing at such 
a time, or indeed at any time, in the hands of one so powerfully 
built as Munro. 

“Hello! now — who are you, I say? Hands off! — Tongs! 
'Fongs! — Hands off!—Tongs, I say—” 

But Tongs heard not, or heeded not, any of the rapid excla¬ 
mations of the jailer, who continued to struggle. Munro gave 
a single glance to the pedler, whose countenance singularly con¬ 
trasted with the expression which, in the performance of such 
a duty, and at such a time, it might have been supposed proper 
for it to have worn. There was a look from his eyes of most 
vacant and elevated beatitude; a simper sat upon his lips, 
which parted ineffectually with the speech that he endeavored 
to make. A still lingering consciousness of something to he 
done, prompted him to rise, however, and stumble toward the 
landlord; who, while scuffling with the jailer, thus addressed 
him: — 

“Why, Bunce, it’s hut half done!—you’ve bungled. See, 
he’s too sober by half!” 

“ Sober? no, no—guess lie’s drunk — drunk as a gentleman. 
I say, now — what must I do ?” 

“ Do ?” muttered the landlord, between his teeth, and point¬ 
ing to Tongs, who reeled and raved in his seat, “ do as I do!” 
And, at the word, with a single blow of his fist, he felled the 
still refractory jailer with as much ease as if he had been an 
infant in his hands. The pedler, only half conscious, turned 
nevertheless to the half-sleeping Tongs, and resolutely drove 
his fist into his face. 

It was at that moment that the nostrum, having taken its full 
effect, deprived him of the proper force which alone could have 
made the blow available for the design which he had manfully 
enough undertaken. The only result of the effort was to pre¬ 
cipitate him, with an impetus not his own, though deriving 


SACK AND SUGAR. 


431 


much of its effect from his own weight, upon the person of the 
enfeebled Tongs: the toper clasped him round with a corre¬ 
sponding spirit, and they both rolled upon the floor in utter 
imbecility, carrying with them the table around which they had 
been seated, and tumbling into the general mass of bottles, 
pipes, and glasses, the slumbering youth, who, till that moment, 
lay altogether ignorant of the catastrophe. 

Munro, in the meanwhile, had possessed himself of the de¬ 
sired keys; and throwing a sack, with which he had taken care 
to provide himself, over the head of the still struggling but ra¬ 
ther stupified jailer, he bound the mouth of it with cords closely 
around his body, and left him rolling, with more elasticity and 
far less comfort than the rest of the party, around the floor of 
the apartment. 

He now proceeded to look at the pedler; and seeing his con¬ 
dition, though much wondering at his falling so readily into his 
own temptation — never dreaming of the mistake which he had 
ma de-—he did not waste time to rouse him up, as he plainly 
saw he could get no further service out of him. A moment’s re¬ 
flection taught him, that, as the condition of Bunce himself would 
most probably free him from any suspicion of design, the affair 
told as well for his purpose as if the original arrangement had 
succeeded. Without more pause, therefore, he left the house, 
carefully locking the doors on the outside, so as to delay egress, 
and hastened immediately to the release of the prisoner. 


432 


GUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

FREEDOM-FLIGHT. 

The landlord lost no time in freeing the captive. A few min¬ 
utes sufficed to find and fit the keys; and, penetrating at once 
to the cell of Ralph Colleton, he soon made the youth acquaint¬ 
ed with as much of the circumstances of his escape as might he 
thought necessary for the satisfaction of his immediate curiosity 
He wondered at the part taken by Munro in the affair, but hesi¬ 
tated not to accept his assistance. Though scrupulous, and 
rigidly so, not to violate the laws, and having a conscientious 
regard to all human and social obligations, he saw no immorality 
in flying from a sentence, however agreeable to law, in all re¬ 
spects so greatly at variance with justice. A second intimation 
was not wanting to his decision; and, without waiting until the 
landlord should unlock the chain which secured him, he was 
about to dart forward into the passage, when the restraining 
check which it gave to his forward movement warned him of 
the difficulty. 

Fortunately, the obstruction was small: the master-key, not 
only of the cells, but of the several locks to the fetters of the 
prison, was among the bunch of which the jailer had been dis¬ 
possessed ; and, when found, it performed its office. The youth 
was again free; and a few moments only had elapsed, after the 
departure of Munro from the house of the pedler, when both 
Ralph and his deliverer were upon the high-road, and bending 
their unrestrained course toward the Indian nation. 

“And now, young man,” said the landlord, “you are free. I 
have performed my promise to one whose desire in this matter 
jumps full with my own. I should have been troubled enough 
had you perished for the death of Forrester, though, to speak 


FREEDOM — FLIGHT. 


433 


the truth, I should not have risked myself, as I have done to¬ 
night, but for my promise to her.” 

“Who] — of whom do you speak ] To whom do I owe all 
this, if it comes not of your own head ]” 

“And you do not conjecture] Have you not a thought on 
the subject] Was it likely, think you, that the young woman, 
who did not fear to go to a stranger’s chamber at midnight, in 
order to save him from his enemy, Avould forget him altogether 
when a greater danger was before him ]” 

“And to Miss Munro again do I owe my life] Noble girl! 
how shall I requite—how acknowledge my deep responsibility 
to her]” 

“ You can not! I have not looked on either of you for noth¬ 
ing; and my observation has taught me all your feelings and 
hers. You can not reward her as she deserves to be rewarded 
— as, indeed, she only can be rewarded by you, Mr. Colleton. 
Better, therefore, that you seek to make no acknowledgments.” 

“ What mean you ] Your words have a signification beyond 
my comprehension. I know that I am unable to requite ser¬ 
vices such as hers, and such an endeavor I surely should not 
attempt; but that I feel gratitude for her interposition may not 
well be questioned — the deepest gratitude; for in this deed, 
with your aid, she relieves me, not merely from death, but the 
worse agony of that dreadful form of death. My acknowledg¬ 
ments for this service are nothing, I am well aware; but these 
she shall have: and what else have I to offer, which she would 
be likely to accept]” 

“There is, indeed, one thing, Mr. Colleton — now that I re¬ 
flect— which it may be in your power to do, and which may 
relieve you of some of the obligations which you owe to her 
interposition, here and elsewhere.” 

The landlord paused for a moment, and looked hesitatingly 
in Ralph’s countenance. The youth saw and understood the 
expression, and replied readily: — 

“Doubt not, Mr. Munro, that I shall do all things consistent 
with propriety, in my power to do, that may take the shape and 
character of requital for this service; anything for Miss Munro, 
for yourself or others, not incompatible with the character of 
the gentleman. Speak, sir : if you can suggest a labor of any 

19 


434 


GUY RIVERS. 


description, not under this head, which would be grateful to 
yourself 01 her, fear not to speak, and rely upon my gratitude 
to serve you both.” 

“ I thank you, Mr. Colleton; your frankness relieves me of 
some heavy thoughts, and I shall open my mind freely to you 
on the subject which now troubles it. I need not tell you what 
my course of life has been. I need not tell you what it is now. 
Bad enough, Mr. Colleton—bad enough, as you must know by 
this time. Life, sir, is uncertain with all persons, but far more 
uncertain with him whose life is such as mine. I know n-ot the 
hour, sir, when I may be knocked on the head. I have no con¬ 
fidence in the people I go with; I have nothing to hope from 
the sympathies of society, or the protection of the laws; and I 
have now arrived at that time of life when my own experience 
is hourly .repeating in my ears the words of scripture: ‘ The 
wages of sin is death.’ Mine has been a life of sin, Mr. Colle¬ 
ton, and I must look for its wages. These thoughts have been 
troubling me much of late, and I feel them particularly heavy 
now. But, don’t think, sir, that fear for myself makes up my 
suffering. I fear for that poor girl, who has no protector, and 
may be doomed to the control of one who would make a hell 
on earth for all under his influence. He has made a hell of it 
for me.” 

“ Who is he ? whom do you mean ?” 

“ You should know him well enough by this time, for he has 
sought your life often enough already—who should I mean, if 
not Guy Rivers ?” 

“And how is she at the mercy of this wretch ?” 

The landlord continued as if he had not heard the inquiry: 

“ Well, as I say, I know not how long I shall be able to take 
care of and provide for that poor girl, whose wish has prompted 
me this night to what I have undertaken. She was my broth¬ 
er’s child, Mr. Colleton, and a noble creature she is. If 1 live, 
sir, she will have to become the wife of Rivers; and, though I 
love her as my own — as I have never loved my own—yet she 
must abide the sacrifice from which, while 1 live , there is no 
escape. But something tells me, sir, I have not long to live. I 
have a notion which makes me gloomy, and which has troubled 
me ever since you have been in prison. One dream comes to 


FREEDOM— FLIGH1. 


435 


me every night —whenever I sleep — and I wake, all over per¬ 
spiration, and with a terror I’m ashamed of. In this dream I 
see my brother always, and always with the same expression. 
He looks at me long and mournfully, and his finger, is uplifted, 
as if in warning. I hear no word from his lips, but they are in 
motion as if he spoke, and then he walks slowly away. Thus, 
for several nights, has my mind been haunted, and I’m sure it 
is not for nothing. It warns me that the time is not very far 
distant when I shall receive the wages of a life like mine —the 
wages of sin—the death, perhaps — who knows?—the death 
of the felon!” 

“ These are fearful fancies, indeed, Mr. Munro; and, whether 
we think on them or not, will have t^ieir influence over the 
strongest-minded of us all: but the thoughts which they occa¬ 
sion to your mind, while they must he painful enough, may be 
the most useful, if they awaken regret of the past,, and incite to 
.amendment in the future. Without regarding them as the pre¬ 
sentiments of death, or of any fearful change, I look upon them 
only as the result of your own calm reflections upon the un¬ 
profitable nature of vice; its extreme unproductiveness in the 
end, however enticing in the beginning; and the painful priva¬ 
tions of human sympathy and society, which are the inevitable 
consequences of its indulgence. These fancies are the sleepless 
thoughts, the fruit of an active memory, which, at such a time, 
unrestrained by the waking judgment, mingles up the counsels 
and the warnings of your brother and the past, with all the im¬ 
ages and circumstances of the present time. But — go on with 
your suggestion. Let me do what I can for the good of those 
in whom you are interested.” 

“ You are right: whatever may be my apprehensions, life is 
uncertain enough, and needs no dreams to make it more so. 
Still, I can not rid myself of this impression, which sticks to 
me like a shadow. Night after night I have seen him—just, 
as I saw him a year before he died. But his looks were full of 
meaning; and when his lips opened, though I heard not a word, 
they seemed to me to say, ‘The hour is at hand!’ I am sure 
they spoke the truth, and I must prepare for it. If 1 live, Mr. 
Colleton, Lucy must marry Rivers: there’s no hope for her 
escape. If I die, there’s no reason for the marriage, for she can 


436 


GUY RIVERS. 


then bicl him defiance. She is willing to marry him now merely 
on my account; for, to say in words, what you no doubt under¬ 
stand, 1 am at his mercy. If I perish before the marriage take 
place, it will not take place; and she will then need a pro¬ 
tector—” 

“ Say no more,” exclaimed the youth, as the landlord paused 
for an instant — “say no more. It will be as little as I can 
say, when I assure you, that all that my family can do for her 
happiness — all that I can .do — shall be done. Be at ease on 
this matter, and believe me that I promise you nothing which 
my heart would not strenuously insist upon my performing. She 
shall be a sister to me.” 

As he spoke, the la ilord warmly pressed his hand, leaning 
forward from his sac /e as he did so, but without a single ac¬ 
companying word. The dialogue was continued, at intervals, 
in a desultory form, and without sustaining, for any length of 
time, any single topic. Munro seemed heavy with gloomy 
thoughts; and the sky, now becoming lightened with the glo¬ 
ries of the ascending moon, seemed to have no manner of influ¬ 
ence over his sidlen temperament. Not so with the youth. He 
grew elastic and buoyant as they proceeded; and his spirit rose, 
bright and gentle, as if in accordance with the pure lights which 
now disposed themselves, like an atmosphere of silver, through¬ 
out the forest. The thin clouds, floating away from the parent- 
orb, and no longer obscuring her progress, became tributaries, 
and were clothed in their most dazzling draperies — clustering 
around her pathway, and contributing not a little to the loveli¬ 
ness of that serene star from which they received so much. But 
the contemplations of the youth were not long permitted to run 
on in the gladness of his newly-found liberty. On a sudden, 
the action of his companion became animated: he drew up his 
steed for an instant, then applying the rowel, exclaimed in a 
deep but suppressed tone — 

“We are pursued — ride, now — for your life, Mr. Colleton; 
it is three miles to the river, and our horses will serve us well. 
They are chosen — ply the spur, and follow close after me.” 

Let us return to the village. The situation of the jailer, 
Brooks, and of his companions, as the landlord left them, will 
be readily remembered by the reader. It was not until the fu- 


FREEDOM — FLIGHT. 


437 


gitives Mere fairly on the road, that the former, who had been 
pretty well stunned by the severe blow given him by Munro, 
recovered from his stupor; and he then laboured under the 
difficulty of freeing himself from 'he bag about his head and 
shoulders, and his incarceration in the dwelling of the pedler. 

The blow had come nigh to sobering him, and his efforts, ac¬ 
cordingly, were not without success. He looked round in as¬ 
tonishment upon the condition of all things around him, igno¬ 
rant of the individual who had wrested from him his charge, 
besides subjecting his scull to the heavy test which it had been 
so little able to resist or he to repel; and, almost ready to be¬ 
lieve, from the equally prostrate condition of the pedler and his 
Irotlier, that, in reality, the assailant by which he himself was 
overthrown was no other than the potent bottle-god of his 
brother’s familiar worship. 

Such certainly would have been his impression but for the 
sack in which he had been enveloped, and the absence of his 
keys. The blow, which he had not ceased to feel, might have 
been got by a drunken man in a thousand ways, and was no 
argument to show the presence of an enemy; but the sack, and 
the missing keys-—they brought instant conviction, and a rap¬ 
idly increasing sobriety, which, as it duly increased his capa¬ 
city for reflection, was only so much more unpleasant than his 
drunkenness. 

But no time was to be lost, and the first movement—having 
essayed, though ineffectually, to kick his stupid host and snor¬ 
ing brother-in-law into similar consciousness with himself— 
was to rush headlong to the jail, where he soon realized all the 
apprehensions which assailed him when discovering the loss of 
his keys. The prisoner was gone, and the riotous search 
which he soon commenced about the village collected a crowd, 
whose clamors, not less than his own, had occasioned the uproar, 
which concluded the conference between Miss Colleton and 
Guy Rivers, as narrated in a previous chapter. 

The mob, approaching the residence of Colone Colleton, as 
a place which might probably have been resorted to by the 
fugitive, brought the noise more imperiously to the ears of 
Rivers, and compelled his departure. He sallied forth, and in 
a little while ascertained the cause of the disorder. By this 


438 


GUY RIVEllS 


time the dwelling of Colonel Colleton had undergone the closest 
scrutiny. It was evident to the crowd, that, so far from har¬ 
boring the youth, they were not conscious of the escape; but 
of this Rivers was not so certain. He was satisfied in his own 
mind that the stern refusal of Edith to accept his overtures for 
the rescue, arose only from the belief that they could do with¬ 
out him. More than ever irritated by this idea, the outlaw 
was bold enough, relying upon his disguise, to come forward, 
and while all was indecisive in the multitude, to lay plans for 
a pursuit. He did not scruple to instruct the jailer as to what 
course should be taken for the recovery of the fugitive; and 
by his cool, strong sense and confidence of expression, he in 
fused new hope into that much-bewildered person. Nobody 
knew who he was, but as the village was full of strangers, who 
had never been seen there before, this fact occasioned neither 
surprise nor inquiry. 

His advice was taken, and a couple of the Georgia guard, 
who were on station in the village, now making their appear¬ 
ance, he suggested the course which they should pursue, and in 
few words gave the reasons which induced the choice. Famil¬ 
iar himself with all the various routes of the surrounding 
country, he did not doubt that the fugitive, under whatever 
guidance, for as yet he knew nothing of Munro’s agency in 
the business, would take the most direct course to the Indian 
nation. 

All this was done, on his part, with an excited spirit, the re¬ 
sult of that malignant mood which now began to apprehend 
the chance of being deprived of all its victims. Had this not 
been the case—had he not been present—the probability is, 
that, in the variety of counsel, there would have been a far 
greater delay in the pursuit; but such must always be the in¬ 
fluence of a strong and leading mind in a time of trial and pop¬ 
ular excitement. Such a mind concentrates and makes effec¬ 
tive the power which otherwise would be wasted in air. His 
superiority of character was immediately manifest—bis sug¬ 
gestions were adopted without dissent; and, in a few moments 
the two troopers, accompanied by the jailer, were in pursuit 
upon the very road taken by the fugitives. 

Rivers, in the meanwhile, though excessively anxious about 


FREEDOM — FLIGHT. 


439 


the result of the pursuit, was yet too sensible of his own risk to 
remain much longer in the village. Annoyed not a little by 
the apprehended loss of that revenge which he had described 
as so delicious in contemplation to his mind, he could not ven¬ 
ture to linger where he was, at a time of such general excite¬ 
ment and activity. With a prudent caution, therefore, more 
the result of an obvious necessity than of any accustomed habit 
of his life, he withdrew himself as soon as possible from the 
crowd, at the moment when Pippin — who never lost a good 
opportunity — had mounted upon a stump in order to address 
them. Breaking away just as the lawyer was swelling with 
some old truism, and perhaps no truth, about the rights of man 
and so forth, he mounted his horse, which he had concealed in 
the neighborhood, and rode off to the solitude and the shelter 
of his den. 

There was one thing that troubled his mind along with its 
other troubles, and that was to find out who were the active 
parties in the escape of Colleton. In all this time, he had not 
for a moment suspected Munro of connection with the affair— 
he had too much overrated his own influence with the landlord 
to permit of a thought in his mind detrimental to his conscious 
superiority. He had no clue, the guidance of which might 
bring him to the trail; for the jailer, conscious of his own irreg¬ 
ularity, was cautious enough in suppressing everything like a 
detail of the particular circumstances attending the escape; 
contenting himself, simply, with representing himself as having 
been knocked down by some persons unknown, and rifled of 
the keys while lying insensible. 

Rivers could only think of the pedler, and yet, such was his 
habitual contempt for that person, that he dismissed the thought 
the moment it came into his mind. Troubled thus in spirit, 
and filled with a thousand conflicting notions, he had almost 
reached the rocks, when he was surprised to perceive, on a sud¬ 
den, close at his elbow, the dwarfish figure of our old friend 
Chub Williams. Without exhibiting the slightest show of ap¬ 
prehension, the urchin resolutely continued his course along 
with the outlaw, unmoved by his presence, and with a degree 
of cavalier indifference which he had never ventured to mani¬ 
fest to that dangerous personage before. 


440 


GUY RIVERS. 


“ Why, how now, Chub — do you not see me?” was tl e first 
inquiry of Rivers. 

“Can the owl see? — Chub is an owl—he can’t see in the 
moonlight.” 

“Well, but, Chub — why do you call yourself an owl ? You 
don’t want to see me, boy, do you ?” 

“ Chub wants to see nobody but his mother — there’s Miss 
Lucy now — why don’t you let me see her? she talks jest like 
Chub’s mother.” 

“ Why, you dog, didn’t you help to steal her away ? Have 
you forgotten how you pulled away the stones? I should have 
you whipped for it, sir — do you know that I can whip — don’t 
the hickories grow here ?” 

“Yes, so Chub’s mother said — but you can’t whip Chub. 
Chub laughs — he laughs at all your whips. That for your 
hickories. Ha! ha! ha! Chub don’t mind the hickories — 
you can’t catch Chub, to whip him with your hickories. Try 
now, if you can. Try—” and as he spoke he darted along 
with a rickety, waddling motion, half earnest in his flight, yet 
seemingly, partly with the desire to provoke pursuit. Some¬ 
thing irritated with what was so unusual in the habit of the 
boy, and what he conceived only so much impertinence, the 
outlaw turned the horse’s head down the hill after him, but, as 
he soon perceived, without any chance of overtaking him in so 
broken a region. The urchin all the while, as if encouraged 
by the evident hopelessness of the chase on the part of the 
pursuer, screeched out volley after volley of defiance and 
laughter — breaking out at intervals into speeches which he 
thought ihotet like to annoy and irritate. 

“Ha, ha, ha! Chub don’t mind your hickories — Chub’s 
fingers are long—he will pull away all the stones of your 
house, and then you will have to live in the tree-top.” 

But on a sudden his tune was changed, as Rivers, half- 
irritated bythe pertinacity of the dwarf, pull out a pistol, and 
directed it at liis head. In a moment, the old influence was 
predominant, and in undisguised terror he cried out— 

“Now don’t—don’t; Mr. Guy — don’t you shoot Chub- 
Chub won’t laugh again—he won’t pull away the stones'—he 
won’t.” 


FREEDOM — FLIGHT. 


441 


The outlaw now laughed himself at the terror which he had 
inspired, and beckoning the boy near him, he proceeded, if pos¬ 
sible, to persuade hin into a feeling of amity. There .ras a 
strange temper in him with reference to this outcast. His 
deformity — his desolate condition—his deficient intellect, in¬ 
spired, in the breast of the fierce man, a feeling of sympathy, 
which he had not entertained for the whole world of humanity 
beside. 

Such is the contradictory character of the misled and the 
erring spirit. Warped to enjoy crime — to love the deformities 
of all moral things — to seek after and to surrender itself up to 
all manner of perversions, yet now and then, in the long tissue, 
returning, for some moments, to the original temper of that first 
nature not yet utterly departed ; and few and feeble though the 
fibres be which still bind the heart to her worship, still strong 
enough at times to remind it of the true, however it may be 
insufficient to restrain it in its wanderings after the false. 

But the language and effort of the outlaw, though singularly 
kind, failed to have any of the desired effect upon the dwarf. 
With an unhesitating refusal to enter the outlaw’s dwelling- 
place in the rocks, he bounded away into a hollow of the hills, 
and in a moment was out of sight of his companion. Fatigued 
with his recent exertions, and somewhat more sullen than usual, 
Rivers entered the gloom)' abode, into which it is not our pres¬ 
ent design to follow him. 


19* 


442 


GUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

PURSUIT — DEATH. 

The fugitives, meanwhile, pursued their waj with the speed 
of men conscious that life and death hung upon their progress. 
There needed no exhortations from his companion to Ralph 
Colleton. More than life, with him, depended upon his speed. 
The shame of such a death as that to which he had been 
destined was for ever before his eyes, and with a heart nerved 
to its utmost by a reference to the awful alternative of flight, 
he grew reckless in the audacity with which he drove his horse 
forward in defiance of all obstacle and over every impediment. 
Nor were the present apprehensions of Munro much less than 
those of his companion. To be overtaken, as the participant of 
the flight of one whose life was forfeit, would necessarily invite 
such an examination of himself as must result in the develop¬ 
ment of his true character, and such a discovery must only ter¬ 
minate in his conviction and sentence to the same doom. His 
previously-uttered presentiment grew more than ever strong 
with the growing consciousness of his danger; and with an 
animation, the fruit of an anxiety little short of absolute fear, 
he stimulated the progress of Colleton, while himself driving 
the rowel ruthlessly into the smoking sides of the animal he 
bestrode. 

“ On, sir — on, Mr. Colleton—this is no moment for graceful 
attitude. Bend forward—free rein—rashing spur. We ride 
for life—for life. They must not take us alive—remember 
that. Let them shoot—strike, if they please—but they must 
put no hands on us as living men. If we must die, why—any 
death but a dog’s. Are you prepared for such a finish to your 
ride ]” 

“ I am—but I trust it has not come to that. How much have 
we yet to the river V 9 


PURSUIT — DEATH. 


443 


“ Two miles at the least, and a tough road. They gain upon 
us — do you not hear them — we are slow — very slow. These 
horses—on, Syphax, dull devil —on — on!” 

And at every incoherent and unconnected syllable, the land 
lord struck his spurs into his animal, and incited the youth to 
do the same. 

“ There is an old mill upon the branch to our left, where for 
a few hours we might lie in secret, but daylight would find us 
out. Shall we try a birth there, or push on for the river ?” in¬ 
quired Munro. 

“Push on, by all me-ins—let us stop nowhere—we shall be 
safe if we make the nation,” was the reply . 

“ Ay, safe enough, but that’s the rub. If we could stretch a 
mile or two between us, so as to cross before they heave in 
sight, I could take you to a place where the whole United 
States would never find us out — but they gain on us — I hear 
them every moment more and more near. The sounds are very 
clear to-night—a sign of rain, perhaps to-morrow. On, sir! 
Push ! The pursuers must hear us, as we hear them.” 

“But I hear them not — I hear no sounds but our own—” 
replied the youth. 

“Ah, that’s because you have not the ears of an outlaw. 
There’s a necessity for using our ears, one of the first that we 
acquire, and I can hear sounds farther, I believe, than any man 
I ever met, unless it be Guy Rivers. He has the ears of the 
devil, when his blood’s up. Then he hears further than I can, 
though I’m not much behind him even then. Hark ! they are 
now winding the hill not more than half a mile off, and we hear 
nothing of them now until they get round — the hill thuws the 
echo to the rear, as it is more abrupt on that side than on this. 
At this time, if they heard us before, they can not hear us. 
We could now make the old mill with some hope of their losing 
our track, as we strike into a blind path to do so. What say 
you, Master Colleton — shall we turn aside or go forward ?” 

Forward, I say. If we are to suffer, I would suffer on the 
high road, in full motion, and not be caught in a crevice like a 
lurking thief. Better be shot down—far better — I think with 
you— than risk recapture.” 

W 11 it’s the right spirit you have, and we may beat 


GUY RIVERS. 


i it 

tlicin yet! We cease again to hear them. They are drivin fc 
through the close grove where the trees hang so much over. 
God — it is but a few moments since we went through it our¬ 
selves—they gain on us — but the river is not far — speed on — 
bend forward, and use the spur — a few minutes more close 
pushing, and the river is in sight. Kill the beasts—no matter 
— but make the river.” 

“ How do we cross ?” inquired the youth, hurriedly, though 
with a confidence something increased by the manner of his 
companion. 

“Drive in — drive in—there are two fords, each within 
twenty yards of the other, and the river is not high. You take 
the path and ford to the right, as you come in sight of the 
water, and I’ll keep the left. Your horse swims well — so don’t 
mind the risk ; and if there’s any difficulty, leave him, and take 
to the water yourself. The side I give you is the easiest; 
though it don’t matter which side 1 take. I’ve gone through 
worse chances than this, and, if we hold or. for a few moments, 
we are safe. The next turn, and we are on the banks.” 

“The river—the river,” exclaimed the youth, involuntarily, 
as the broad and quiet stream wound before his eyes, glittering 
like a polished mirror in the moonlight. 

“ Ay, there it is — now to the right — to the right! Look not 
behind you. Let them shoot—let them shoot! but lose not an 
instant to look. Plunge forward and drive in. They are close 
upon us, and the flat is on the other side. They can’t pursue, 
unless they do as we, and they have no such reason for so des¬ 
perate a course. It is swimming and full of snags ! They will 
stop — they will not follow. In — in—not a moment is to be 
lost-—” and speaking, as they pursued their several ways, he to 
the left and Ralph Colleton to the right ford, the obedient 
steeds plunged forward under the application of the rowel, and 
were fairly in the bosom of the stream, as the pursuing party 
rode headlong up the bank. 

Struggling onward, in the very centre of the stream, with the 
steed, which, to do him all manner of justice, swam nobly, Ralph 
Colleton could not resist the temptation to look round upon his 
pursuers. Writhing his body in the saddle, therefore, a single 
glaur.o \yas sufficient and, in the full glare of the moonligh 


PURSUIT—DEATH. 


445 


unimpeded by any interposing- foliage, the prospect before his 
eyes was imposing and terrible enough. The pursuers were 
four in number — the jailer, two of the Georgia guard, and an¬ 
other person unknown to him. 

As Munro had predicted, they did not venture to plunge in 
as the fugitives had done — they had no such fearful motive for 
the risk; and the few moments which they consumed in delib¬ 
eration as to what they should do, contributed not a little to the 
successful experiment of the swimmers. 

But the youth at length caught a fearful signal of prepara¬ 
tion ; his ear noted the sharp click of the lock, as the rifle was 
referred to in the Anal resort; and his ready sense conceived 
but of one, and the only mode of evading the danger so imme¬ 
diately at hand. Too conspicuous in his present situation to 
hope for escape, short of a miracle, so long as he remained upon 
the back of the swimming horse, he relaxed his hold, carefully 
drew his feet from the stirrups, resigned his seat, and only a 
second before the discharge of the rifle, was deeply buried in 
the bosom of the Ohestatee. 

The steed received the bullet in his head, plunged forward 
madly, to the no small danger of Ralph, avIio had now got a lit¬ 
tle before him, but in a few moments lay supine upon the stream, 
and was borne down by its current. The youth, practised in 
such exercises, pressed forward under the surface for a sufficient 
time to enable him to avoid the present glance of the enemy, and 
at length, in safety, rounding a jutting point of the shore, which 
effectually concealed him from their eyes, he gained the dry 
land, at the very moment in which Munro, with more success, 
was clambering, still mounted, up the steep sides of a neighbor¬ 
ing and slippery bank. 

Familiar with such scenes, the landlord had duly estimated 
the doubtful chances of his life in swimming the river directly 
in sight of the pursuers. He had, therefore, taken the precau-' 
tion to oblique considerably to the left from the direct course, 
and did not, in consequence, appear in sight, owing to the sinuous 
windings of the stream, until he had actually gained the shore. 

The youth beheld him at this moment, and shouted aloud his 
own situation and safety. In a voice indicative of restored con¬ 
fidence in himself, no less than in liis fate, the landlord, by a 


446 


GUY RIVERS. 


similar shout, recognised him, and was bending forward to the 
spot where he stood, when the sharp and joint report of three 
rifles from the opposite banks, attested tho discovery of his per¬ 
son ; and, in the same instant, the rider tottered forward in his 
saddle, his grasp was relaxed upon the rein, and, without a 
word, he toppled from his seat, and was borne for a few paces 
by his horse, dragged forward by one of his feet, which had not 
been released from the stirrup. 

He fell, at length, and the youth came up with him. ne 
heard the groans of the wounded man, and, though exposing 
himself to the same chance, he could not determine upon flight. 
He might possibly have saved himself by taking the now freed 
animal which the landlord had ridden, and at once burying him¬ 
self in the nation. But the noble weakness of pity determined 
him otherwise; and, without scruple or fear, he resolutely ad¬ 
vanced to the spot where Munro lay, though full in the sight 
of the pursuers, and prepared to render him what assistance he 
could. One of the troopers, in the meantime, had swum the 
river ; and, freeing the flat from its chains, had directed it across 
the stream for the passage of his companions. It was not long 
before they had surrounded the fugitives, and Ralph Colleton 
was again a prisoner, and once more made conscious of the 
dreadful doom from which he had, at one moment, almost con¬ 
ceived himself to have escaped. 

Munro had been shockingly wounded. One hall had pierced 
his thigh, inflicting a severe, though probably not a fatal wound. 
Another, and this had been enough, had penetrated directly be¬ 
hind the eyes, keeping its course so truly across, as to tear and 
turn the bloody orbs completely out upon the cheek beneath. 
The first words of the dying man were — 

“ Is the moon gone down—lights — bring lights !” 

“No, Munro; the moon is still shining without a cloud, and 
as brightly as if it were day ” was the reply of Ralph. 

“Who speaks — speak again, that I may know how to be¬ 
lieve him.” 

“ It is I, Munro — I, Ralph Colleton.” 

“ Then it is true—and I am a dead man. It is all over, and 
he came not to me for nothing. Yet, can I have no lights— 
no lights? — Ah !” a id the half-reluctant reason grew more ter- 


PURSUIT — DEATH. 


447 


ribly conscious of his situation, as he thrust his fingers into the 
bleeding sockets from which the fine and delicate conductor of 
light had been so suddenly driven. He howled aloud for sev¬ 
eral moments in his agony — in the first agony which came with 
that consciousness—but, recovering, at length, he spoke with 
something of calm and coherence. 

“ Well, Mr. Colleton, what I said was true. I knew it would 
be so. I had warning enough to prepare, and I did try, but it’s 
come over soon and nothing is done. I have my wages, and the 
text spoke nothing but the truth. I can not stand this pain long 
— it is too much — and—” 

The pause in his speech, from extreme agony, was filled up 
by a shriek that rung fearfully amid the silence of such a scene, 
but it lasted not long. The mind of the landlord was not en¬ 
feebled by his weakness, even at such a moment. He recovered 
and proceeded:— 

“ Yes, Mr. Colleton, I am a dead man. I have my wages— 
but my death is your life! Let me tell the story—and save 
you, and save Lucy—and thus—(oh, could I believe it for an 
instant) — save myself! But, no matter—we must talk of other 
things. Is that Brooks—is that Brooks beside me?” 

“No, it is I — Colleton.” 

“I know — I know,” impatiently — “who else?” 

“ Mr. Brooks, the jailer, is here —Ensign Martin and Brincle, 
of the Georgia guard,” was the reply of the jailer. 

“ Enough, then, for your safety, Mr. Colleton. They can 
prove it all, and then remember Lucy—poor Lucy ! You will 
be in time — save her from Guy Rivers — Guy Rivers—the 
wretch — not Guy Rivers — no—there’s a secret—there’s a 
secret for you, my men, shall bring you a handsome reward. 
Stoop — stoop, you three — where are you? — stoop, and hear 
what I have to say! It is my dying word!—and I swear it 
by all things, all powers, all terrors, that can make an oath sol¬ 
emn with a wretch whose life is a long crime! Stoop — hear 
me—heed all — lose not a word — not a word — not a word ! 
Where are you ?” 

“ We are here, beside you — we hear all that you say. Go 
on!” 

“ Guy Rivers is not his name — he is not Guy Rivers — heax 


448 


GUY RIVERS. 


now — Guy Rivers is the outlaw for whom the governor’s proc¬ 
lamation gives a high reward — a thousand dollars — the man 
who murdered Judge Jessup. Edward Creighton, of Gwinnett 
courthouse — he is the murderer of Jessup — lie is the murderer 
of Forrester, for whose death the life of Mr. Colleton here is for¬ 
feit ! I saw him kill them both ! — I saw more than that, but 
that is enough to save the innocent man and punish the guilty! 
Take down all that I have said. I, too, am guilty! would 
make amends, but it is almost too late — the night is very dark, 
and the earth swings about like a cradle. Ah !—have you ta¬ 
ken down on paper what I said ? I will tell you nothing more 
till all is written—write it down — on paper—every word — 
write that before I say any more!” 

They complied with his requisition. One of the troopers, on 
a sheet of paper furnished by the jailer, and placed upon the 
saddle of his horse, standing by in the pale light of the moon, 
recorded word after word, with scrupulous exactness, of the dy¬ 
ing man’s confession. He proceeded duly to the narration of 
every particular of all past occurrences, as we ourselves have 
already detailed them to the reader, together with many more, 
unnecessary to our narrative, of which we had heretofore no 
cognizance. When this was done, the landlord required it to 
be read, commenting, during its perusal, and dwelling, with 
more circumstantial minuteness, upon many of its parts. 

“ That will do — that will do ! Now swear me, Brooks! — 
you are in the commission—lift my hand and swear me, so 
that nothing be wanting to the truth! What if there is no 
bible V ’ he exclaimed, suddenly, as some one of the individuals 
present suggested a difficulty on this subject. 

“ What! — because there is no bible, shall there be no truth ? 
I swear — though I have had no communion with God — I swear 
to the truth—by him ! Write down my oath—he is present — 
they say lie is always present! I believe it now — I only wish 
I had always believed it! I swear by him—he will not falsi¬ 
fy the truth! — write down my oath, while I lift my hand to 
him! Would it were a prayer—but I can not pray — I am 
more used to oaths than prayers, and I can not pray ! Is it 
written — is it written? Look, Mr. Colleton, look — you know 
the law. If you are satisfied, I am. Will it do ?” 


PURSUIT — DEATH. 449 

Colleton replied quickly in the affirmative, and the dying 
man went on :— 

“ Remember Lucy—the poor Lucy ! You will take care of 
her. Say no harsh words in her ears—but, why should I ask 
this of you, whom — Ah! — it goes round—round — round — 
swimming — swimming. Very dark—very dark night, and 
the trees dance—Lucy—” 

The voice sunk into a faint whisper whose sounds were un¬ 
syllabled— an occasional murmur escaped them once after, in 
which the name of his niece was again heard; exhibiting, at 
the last, the affection, however latent, which he entertained in 
reality for the orphan trust of his brother. In a few moments, 
and the form stiffened before them in all the rigid sullenness of 
death. 


450 


GUY RIVERS. 


CHAPTER XL. 

VOLF’S NECK — CAPTURE. 

The cupidity of his captors had been considerably stimulated 
by the dying words of Munro. They were all of them familiar 
with the atrocious murder which, putting a price upon his head, 
had driven Creighton, then a distinguished member of the bar 
in one of the more civilized portions of the state, from the pale 
and consideration of society; and their anxieties were now en¬ 
tirely addressed to the new object which the recital they had 
just heard had suggested to them. They had gathered from 
the narrative of the dying man some idea of the place in which 
they would most probably find the outlaw; and, though without 
a guide to the spot, and altogether ignorant of its localities, they 
determined — without reference to others, who might only sub¬ 
tract from their own share of the promised reward, without con¬ 
tributing much, if any, aid, which they might not easily dispense 
with — at once to attempt his capture. This was the joint un¬ 
derstanding of the whole party, Ralph Colleton excepted. 

In substance, the youth was now free. The evidence fur¬ 
nished by Munro only needed the recognition of the proper 
authorities to make him so; yet, until this had been effected, he 
remained in a sort of understood restraint, but without any ac¬ 
tual limitations. Pledging himself that they should suffer noth¬ 
ing from the indulgence given him, he mounted the horse of 
Munro, whose body was cared for, and took his course back to 
the village ; while, following the directions given them, the guard 
and jailer pursued their way to the Wolf’s Neck in their search 
after Guy Rivers. 

The outlaw had been deserted by nearly all his followers. 
The note of preparation and pursuit, sounded by the state au¬ 
thorities. had inspired the depredators with a degree of terror, 


WOLF’S NECK — CAPTURE. 


461 


which tlie near approximation of the guard, in strong numbers, 
to their most secluded places, had not a little tended to increase; 
and accordingly, at the period of which we now speak, the out¬ 
law, deserted by all but one or two of the most daring of his 
followers—who were, however, careful enough of themselves 
to keep in no one place long, and cautiously to avoid their ac¬ 
customed haunts — remained in his rock, in a state of gloomy 
despondency, not usually his characteristic. Had he been less 
stubborn, less ready to defy all chances and all persons, it is 
not improbable that Rivers would have taken counsel by their 
flight, and removed himself, for a time at least, from the scene 
of danger. But his native obstinacy, and that madness of heart 
which, as we are told, seizes first upon him whom God seeks to 
destroy, determined him, against the judgment of others, and in 
part against his own, to remain where he was; probably in the 
fallacious hope that the storm would pass over, as on so many 
piv.' ious occasions it had already done, and leave him again 
free t? his old practices in the same region. A feeling of pride, 
which made him unwilling to take a suggestion of fear and 
flight from the course of others, had some share in this decision ; 
and, if we add the vague hungering of his heart toward the 
lovely Edith, and possibly the influence of other pledges, and 
the imposing consideration of other duties, we shall not be 
greatly at a loss-'in understanding the injudicious indifference 
to the threatening dangers which appears to have distinguished 
the conduct of the otherwise politic and circumspect ruffian. 

That night, after lifts return from the village, and the brief 
dialogue with Chub Williams, as we have already narrated it, 
he retired to the deepest cell of his den, and, throwing himself 
into a seat, covering his face with his hands, he gave himself 
up to a meditation as true in its philosophy as it was humilia¬ 
ting throughout in its application to himself. Dillon, his lieu¬ 
tenant — if such a title may be permitted in such a place, and 
for such a person—came to him shortly after his arrival, and 
in brief terms, with a blunt readiness—which, coming directly 
to the point, did not offend the person to whom it was ad¬ 
dressed— demanded to know what he meant to do with himself. 

“We can’t stay here any longer,” said he; “the troops are 
gathering all round us. The country’s alive with them, and in 


462 


GUY RIVERS. 


a few days we shouldn’t be able to stir from the hollow of a 
tree without popping into the gripe of some of our hunters. In 
the Wolfs Neck they will surely seek us; for, though a very 
fine place for us while the country’s thin, yet even its old own¬ 
ers, the wolves, would fly from it when the horn of the hunter 
rings through the wood. It won’t be very long before they 
pierce to the very ‘ nation,’ and then we should have but small 
chance of a long grace. Jack Ketch would make mighty small 
work of our necks, in his hurry to go to dinner.” 

“And what of all this —what is all this to me?” was the 
strange and rather phlegmatic response of the outlaw, who did 
not seem to take in the full meaning of his officer’s speech, and 
whose mind, indeed, was at that moment wandering to far other 
considerations. Dillon seemed not a little surprised by this 
reply, and looked inquiringly into the face of the speaker, doubt¬ 
ing for a moment his accustomed sanity. The stern look which 
his glance encountered directed its expression elsewhere, and, 
after a moment’s pause, he replied— 

“ Why, captain, you can’t have thought of what I’ve been 
saying, or you wouldn’t speak as you do. I think it’s a great 
deal to both you and me, what I’ve been telling you; and the 
sooner you come to think so too, the better. It’s only yester¬ 
day afternoon that I narrowly missed being seen at the forks 
by two of the guard, well mounted, and with rifles. I had but 
the crook of the fork in my favor, and the hollow of the creek 
at the old ford where it’s been washed away. They’re all 
round us, and I don’t think we’re safe here another day. In¬ 
deed, I only come to see if you wouldn’t be off with me, at once, 
into the ‘ nation.’ ” 

“ You are considerate, but must go alone. I have no appre¬ 
hensions where I am, and shall not stir for the nresent. For 
yourself, you must determine as you think proper. I have no' 
further hold on your service. I release you from the oath. 
Make the best of your way into the ‘nation’ — ay, go yet far¬ 
ther; and, hear me, Dillon, go where you are unknown—go 
where you can enter society; seek for the fireside, where you 
can have those who, in the dark hour, will have no wish to de¬ 
sert you. I have no claim now upon yon., and the sooner you 
* take the range’ the better.” 


wolf’s NECK — CAPTURE. 


453 


“And why not go along with me, captain? I hate to go 
alone, and hate to leave you where you are. I shan’t think 
you out of danger while you stay here, and don’t see any rea¬ 
son for you to do S5.” 

“ Perhaps not, Dillon; but there is reason, or I should not 
stay. We may not go together, even if I were to fly—our 
paths lie asunder. They may never more be one. Go you, 
therefore, and heed me not; and think of me no more. Make 
yourself a home in the Mississippi, or on the Red river, and get 
yourself a fireside and family of your own. These are the 
things that will keep your heart warm within you, cheering you 
in hours that are dark, like this.” 

“And why, captain,” replied the lieutenant,much affected— 
“why should you not take the course which you advise for 
me ? Why not, in the Arkansas, make yourself a home, and 
with a wife—” 

“Silence, sir!—not a word of that! Why come you to 
chafe me here in my den ? Am I to be haunted for ever with 
such as you, and with words like these ?” and the brow of the 
outlaw blackened as he spoke, and his white teeth knit together, 
fiercely gnashing for an instant, while the foam worked its way 
through the occasional aperture between them. The ebullition 
of passion, however, lasted not long, and the outlaw himself, a 
moment after, seemed conscious of its injustice. 

“ I do you wrong, Dillon; but on this subject I will have no 
one speak. I can not be the man you would have me; T have 
been schooled otherwise. My mother has taught me a different 
lesson: her teachings have doomed me, and these enjoyments 
are now all beyond my hope.” 

“Your mother?” was the response of Dillon, in unaffected 
astonishment. 

“Ay, man—my mother! Is there anything wonderful in 
that ? She taught me the love of evil with her milk — she sang 
it>in lullabies over my cradle — she gave it me in the play¬ 
things of my boyhood; her schoolings have made me the mor¬ 
bid, the fierce criminal, the wilful, vexing spirit, from whose 
association all the gentler virtues must always desire to fly. If, 
in the doom which may finish my life of doom, I have any one 
person to accuse of all, that person is — my mother!” 


4o4 


GUY RIVERS. 


“Is this possible? Can it be true? It is strange—very 
strange!” 

“It is not strange; we see it every day—in almost every 
family. She did not teU me to lie, or to swindle, or to stab — 
no ! oh, no ! she would have told me that all these things were 
bad: but she taught me to perform them all. She roused my 
passions, aud not my principles, into activity. She provoked 
the one, and suppressed the other. Did my father reprove my 
improprieties, she petted me, and denounced him. She crossed 
his better purposes, and defeated all his designs, until, at last, 
she made my passions too strong for my government, not less 
than hers, and left me, knowing the true, yet the victim of the 
false. Thus it was that, while my intellect, in its calmer hours, 
taught me that virtue is the only source of true felicity, ray un¬ 
governable passions set the otherwise sovereign reason at defi¬ 
ance, and trampled it under foot. Yes, in that last hour of eter¬ 
nal retribution, if called upon to denounce or to accuse, I can 
point but to one as the author of all — the weakly-fond, mis¬ 
judging, misguiding woman who gave me birth ! 

“ Within the last hour I have been thinking over all these 
things. I have been thinking how I had beon cursed in child¬ 
hood by one who surely loved me beyond all other things be¬ 
sides. I can remember how sedulously she encouraged and 
prompted my infant passions, uncontrolled Ivy her authority and 
reason, and since utterly unrestrainable by my own. How she 
stimulated me to artifices, and set me the example herself, by 
frequently deceiving my father, and teaching me to disobey and 
deceive him ! She told me not to lie; and she lied all day to 
him, on my account, and to screen me from his anger. She 
taught me the catechism, to say on Sunday, while during the 
week she schooled me in almost every possible form of ingenuity 
to violate all its precepts. She bribed me to do my duty, and 
hence my duty could only be done under the stimulating prom¬ 
ise of a reward; and, without the reward, I went counter to the 
duty. She taught me that God was superior to all, and that he 
required obedience to certain laws; yet, as she hourly violated 
those laws herself in my behalf, I was taught to regard myself 
as far superior to him ! Had she not done all this, I had not 
been h*re and thus: I had been what now I dare not think on. 


wolf’s NECK—CAPTURE 456 

It is all her work. The greatest enemy my life has ever known 
has been my mother!” 

“ This is a horrible thought, captain; yet I can not but think 
it true.” 

“ It is true! I have analyzed my own history, and the causes 
of my character and fortunes now, and I charge it all upon her. 
From one influence I have traced another, and another, until I 
have the sweeping amount of twenty years of crime and sorrow, 
and a life of hate, and probably a death of ignominy — all owing 
to the first ten years of my infant education, where the only 
teacher that I knew was the woman who gave me birth ! — But 
this concerns not you. In my calm mood, Dillon, you have the 
fruit of my reason: to abide its dictate, I should fly with you; 
but I suffer from my mother’s teachings even in this. My pas 
sions, my pride, my fierce hope—the creature of a maddening 
passion—will not let me fly; and I stay, though I stay alone, 
with a throat bare for the knife of the butcher, or the halter of 
the hangman. I will not fly!” 

“And I will stay with you. I can dare something, too, cap¬ 
tain ; and you shall not say, when the worst comes to the worst, 
that Tom Dillon was the man to back out. I will not go either, 
and, whatever is the chance, you shall not be alone.” 

Rivers, for a moment, seemed touched by the devotion of 
his follower, and was silent for a brief interval; but suddenly 
fhe expression of his eye was changed, and he spoke briefly 
and sternly: — 

“ You shall not stay with me, sir! What! am I so low as 
this, that I may not be permitted to be alone svhen I will? 
Will my subordinates fly in my face, and presume to disobey 
my commands? Go, Dillon—have I not said that you must 
fly—that I no longer need your services? Why linger, then, 
where you are no longer needed ? I have that to perform which 
requires me to be alone, and I have no further time to spare 
you. Go — away!” 

“Do you really speak in earnest, captain?” inquired the 
lieutenant, doubtingly, and with a look of much concern. 

“ Am I so fond of trifling, that my officer asks me such a 
question ?” was the stern response. 


456 


GUY RIVERS. 


“Then I am your officer still — you will go with me, or 1 
shall remain.” 

“ Neither, Dillon. The time is past for such an arrangement. 
You are discharged from my service, and from your oath. The 
clnb has no further existence. Go — be a happy, a better man, 
in another part of the world. You have some of the weak¬ 
nesses of your better nature still in you. You had no mother 
to change them into scorn, and strife, and bitterness. Go — 
you may be a better man, and have something, therefore, for 
which to live. I have not—my heart‘can know no change. 
It is no longer under the guidance of reason. It is quite un¬ 
governable now. There was a time when — but why prate of 
this ? — it is too late to think of, and only maddens me the more. 
Besides, it makes not anything with you, and would detain you 
without a purpose. Linger no longer, Dillon — speed to the 
west, and, at some future day, perhaps you shall see me when 
you least expect, and perhaps least desire it.” 

The manner of the outlaw was firm and commanding, and 
Dillon no longer had any reason to doubt his desires, and no 
motive to disobey his wishes. The parting was brief, though 
the subordinate was truly affected. He would have lingered 
still, but Rivers waved him off with a farewell, whose emphasis 
was effectual, and, in a few moments, the latter sat once more 
alone. 

Ilis mood was that of one disappointed in all things, and, 
consequently, displeased and discontented with all things— 
querulously so. In addition to this temper, which was common 
to him, his spirit, at this time, labored under a heavy feeling of 
despondency, and its gloomy sullenness was perhaps something 
lighter to himself while Dillon remained with him. We have 
seen the manner in which he had hurried that personage off. 
He had scarcely been gone, however, when the inconsistent 
and variable temper of the outlaw found utterance in the fol¬ 
lowing soliloquy:— 

“Ay, thus it is—they all desert me; and this is human 
feeling. They all fly the darkness, and this is human courage. 
They love themselves only, or you only while you need no 
love; and this is human sympathy. I need all of these, yet I 
get none; and when I most need, and most desire, and mos* 


wolf’s NECK — CAPTURE. 


457 


seek to obtain, I am the least provided. These are the fruits 
which I have sown, however; should I shrink to gather them ? 

Yet, there is one — but one of all—whom no reproach of 
mine could drive away, or make indifferent to my fate. But I 
will see her no more. Strange madness ! The creature, who, 
of all the world, most loves me fc and is most deserving of my 
love, I banish from my soul as from my sight. And this is 
another fruit of my education—another curse that came with a 
mother—this wilful love of the perilous and the passionate — 
this scorn of the gentle and the soft—this fondness for tho 
fierce contradiction—this indifference to the thing easily won 
—this thirst after the forbidden. Poor Ellen—so gentle, so 
resigned, and so fond of her destroyer; but I will not see her 
again. I must not; she must not stand in the way of my 
anxiety to conquer that pride which had ventured to hate or 
to despise me. I shall see Munro, and he shall lose no time in 
this matter. Yet, what can he be after—he should have been 
here before this; it now wants but little to the morning, and— 
ah ! I have not slep't. Shall I ever sleep again !” 

Thus, striding to and fro in his apartment, the outlaw solilo¬ 
quized at intervals. Throwing himself at length upon a rude 
couch that stood in the corner, he had disposed himself as it 
were for slumber, when the noise, as of a falling rock, attracted 
his attention, and without pausing, he cautiously took liis way 
to the entrance, with a view to ascertain tho cause, lie was 
not easily surprised, and the knowledge of surrounding danger 
made him doubly observant, and more than ever watchful. 

Let us now return to tho party which had pursued the fugi¬ 
tives, and which, after the death of the landlord, had, as we 
have already narrated, adopting the design suggested by his 
dying words, immediately set forth in search of the notorious 
outlaw, eager for the reward put upon his head. Having 
already some general idea of the whereabouts of tho fugitive, 
and the directions given by Munro having been of the most 
specific character, they found little difficulty, after a moderate 
ride of some four or five miles, in striking upon the path directly 
leading to the Wolfs Neck. 

At this time, fortunately for their object, they were encoun¬ 
tered suddenly by our old acquaintance, Chub Williams, whom, 

20 


GUY RIVER? 


lr> 

buf little before, we have seen separating from the indivdual 
in whose pursuit they were now engaged. The deformed 
quietly rode along with the party, hut without seeming to 
recognise their existence — singing all the while a strange 
woodland melody of the time and region — probably the pro¬ 
duction of some village wit 

“ Her frock it was a yaller , 

And she was mighty sprigk 
And she bounced at many a feller 
Who came a-fghting thy. 

t( Her eye was like a sarpent's eye. 

Her cheek was like a flower, 

But her tongue was like a pedler’s clock, 

’Twas a-striking every hour. 

“ And wasn’t she the gal for me, 

And wasn’t she, I pray, sir, 

And I’ll be drot , if you say not, 

We’ll fight this very day, sir, 

We’ii fight this very day, sir.” 

Having delivered himself of this choice morsel of song, the 
half-witted fellow conceitedly challenged the attention of the 
group whom he had not hitherto been disposed to see. 

“ ’Spose you reckon I don’t see you, riding ’longside of me, 
and saying nothing, but listening to my song. I’m singing for 
my own self, and you oughtn’t to listen—I didn’t ax you, and 
J’d like to know what you’re doing so nigh Chub’s house.” 

“ Why, where’s your house, Chub 1” asked one of the party. 

“ You ain’t looking for it, is you ? ’cause you can’t think to 
find it a-looking down. I lives in the tree-top when weather’s 
good like to-night, and when it ain’t, I go into the hollow. I’ve 
a better house than Guy Rivers — he don’t take the tree at all, 
no how.” 

“ And where is his house, Chub 1” was the common inquiry 
of all the party. The dwarf looked at them for a few moments 
without speech, then with a whisper and a gesture significant 
of caution, replied— 

“ If you’re looking for Guy, ’tain’t so easy to find him if he 
don’t want to be found, and you must speak softly if you hunt 
him, whether or no. He’s a dark man, that Guy Rivers—- 


wolf’s NECK — CAPTURE. i5', 

mother always said so—and lie lives a long way ondei the 
ground.” 

“ And can’t you show us where, Chub 1 We will give you 
money for your service.” 

“ Ilain’t you got ’tatoes 1 Chub’s hungry—liain’t eat nothing 
to-night. Guy Rivers has plenty.to eat, but he cursed Chub’s 
mother.” 

“Well, show us where he is, and we’ll give you plenty tc 
eat. Plenty of potatoes and corn,” was the promise of the 
party. 

“ And build up Chub’s house that the fire burnt ? Chub lives 
in the tree now. Guy Rivers’ man burnt Chub’s house, ’cause 
he said Chub was sassy.” 

“ Yes, my boy, we’ll build up your house, and give you a plenty 
to go upon tor a year. You shall have potatoes enough for your 
lifetime, if you will show us how to come upon Guy Rivers to¬ 
night. He u a bad fellow, as you say; and we won’t let him trou¬ 
ble you any more, if you’ll only show us where he is to be found.” 

“ Well—I reckon I can,” was the response, uttered in a con¬ 
fidential whisper, and much more readily given than was the 
wont of the speaker. “ Chub and Guy talked together to-night, 
anl Guy wanted Chub to go with him into his house in Wolfs 
Neck. But Chub don’t love the wolf, and he don’t love the 
Wolfs Neck, now that Miss Lucy’s gone away from it. It’s a 
mighty dark place, the Wolfs Neck, and Chub’s afear’d in the 
dark places, where the moon and stars won’t shine down.” 

“ But you needn’t be afraid now, little Chub. You’re a good 
little fellow, and we’ll keep with yon and follow close, and there 
shall be no danger to you. We’ll fight Guy Rivers for you, so 
that he can’t hurt you any more.” 

“ You’ll fight Guy ! You ! Guy kin fight to kill!” 

“Yes, but we’ll kill him; only you show us where he is, so 
that we can catch him and tie him, and he’ll never trouble Chub 
any more.” 

“ What! you’ll tie Guy ? How I’d like to see anybody tie 
Guy ! You kain’t tie Guy. He’d break through the ropes, ho 
would, if he on’y stretched out his arms.” 

“ You’ll see ! only show us how to find him, and we’ll tie him, 
and we’ll build you a new house, and you shall have more 


460 


GUY RIVERS. 


potatoes and corn than you can shake a stick at, and we’ll give 
you a great jug of whiskey into the bargain. 

“ Now will you! And a jug of whiskey too, and build a 
now house for Chub’s mother—and the corn, and the ’tatoes.” 

“ All! you shall have all we promise.” 

“ Come ! come ! saftly ! put your feet dowm Laftly, for Guy’s 
got great tvlnte owls that watch for him, and they hoot from the 
old tree when the horses are coming. Saftly ! saftly!” 

There is an idiocy that does not lack the vulgar faculty of 
mere shrewdness—that can calculate selfishly, and plan coolly 
— in short, can show itself cunning, whenever it has a motive. 
Find the motive for the insane and the idiotic, always, if you 
would see them exercise the full extent of their little remaining 
wits. 

Chub Williams had a sagacity of this sort. His selfishness 
was appealed to, and all his faculties were on the alert. He gave 
directions for the progress of the party—after his own man¬ 
ner, it is true—but with sufficient promptness and intelligence 
to satisfy them that they might rely upon him. Having reached 
a certain lonely spot among the hills, contiguous to the crag, or 
series of crags, called the Wolfs Neck, Chub made the party 
all dismount, and hide their horses in a thicket into which they 
found it no easy matter to penetrate. This done, he led them 
out again, cautiously moving along under cover, but near the 
margin of the road. He stept as lightly himself as a squirrel, 
taking care, before throwing his weight upon his foot, to feel 
that there was no rotting branch or bough beneath, the break¬ 
ing of which might occasion noise. 

“ Saftly ! saftly !” he would say in a whisper, turning back 
to the party, when he found them treading hurriedly and heav¬ 
ily upon the brush. Sometimes, again, he ran ahead of all of 
them, and for a few moments would be lost to sight; but he 
usually returned, as quickly and quietly as he went, and would 
either lead them forward on the same route with confidence, or 
alter it, according to his discoveries. He was literally feeling 
his way; the instincts and experience of the practised scout 
finding no sort of obstacle in the deficiency of his reasoning 
powers. 

His processes did not argue any doubts of his course ; only 


WOLF’S NECK — CAPTURE. 


461 


ii choice of direction — such as would promise more ease and 
equal security. Some of his changes of movement, he tried to 
explain, in his own fashion, when he came back to guide them 
on other paths. 

“ Saftly hack — saftly now, this way. Guy’s in his dark 
house in the rock, but there’s a many rooms, and’t mout be, 
we’re a walking jest now, over his head. Then he mout hear, 
you see, and Guy’s got ears like the great owl. lie kin hear 
mighty far in the night, and see too; and you mustn’t step into 
his holes. There’s heap of holes in Guy’s dark house. Saftly, 
now-—and here away.” 

Briefly, the rocky avenues were numerous in the Wolfs 
Neck, and some of them ran near the surface. There were 
sinks upon the surface also, covered with brush and clay, into 
which the unthinking wayfarer might stumble, perhaps into 
the very cavern where the outlaw at that moment housed him¬ 
self. The group around the idiot did not fail to comprehend 
the reasons for all his caution. They confided to his skill im¬ 
plicitly; having, of themselves, but small knowledge of the 
wild precincts into which they desired to penetrate. 

Having, at length, brought them to points and places, which 
afforded them the command of the avenues to the rock, the 
next object of their guide was to ascertain where the outlaw 
was at that moment secreted. It was highly important to know 
where to enter—where to look—and not waste time in fruitless 
search of places in which a single man might have a dozen 
blind seekers at his mercy. The cunning of the idiot conceived 
this necessity himself. 

Ilis policy made each of the party hide himself out of sight, 
though in a position whence each might see. 

All arranged as he desired, the urchin armed himself with a 
rock, not quite as large as his own head, but making a most 
respectable approach to it. This, with the aid of coat and ker¬ 
chief he secured upon his back, between his shoulders; and 
thus laden, he yet, with the agility of the opossum, her young 
ones in her pouch, climbed up a tree which stood a little above 
that inner chamber which Guy Rivers had appropriated for him¬ 
self, and where, on more occasions than one, our idiot had peep¬ 
ed in upon him Perched in his tree securely, and shrouded 


462 


GUY RIVERS. 


from sight among its boughs, the urchin disengaged the rock 
from his shoulders, took it in both his hands, and carefully se¬ 
lecting its route, he pitched it, with all his might, out from the 
tree, and in such a direction, that, after it had fairly struck the 
earth, it continued a rolling course down the declivity of the 
rocks, making a heavy clatter all the way it went. 

The ruse answered its purpose. The keen senses of the out¬ 
law caught the sound. His vigilance, now doubly keen, awa¬ 
kened to its watch. We have seen, in previous pages, the ef¬ 
fect that the rolling stone had upon the musing and vexed spirit 
of Guy Rivers, after the departure of Dillon. He came forth, 
as we have seen, to look about for the cause of alarm; and, as 
if satisfied that the disturbance was purely accidental, had re¬ 
tired once more to the recesses of his den. 

Here, throwing himself upon his couch, he seemed disposed 
to sleep. Sleep, indeed! He himself denied that he ever 
slept. His followers were all agreed that when he did sleep, 
it was only with half his faculties shut up. One eye, they con¬ 
tended, was always open! 

Chub Williams, and one of the hunters had seen the figure 
of the outlaw as he emerged from the cavern. The former in¬ 
stantly identified him. The other was too remote to distinguish 
anything but a slight human outline, which he could only de¬ 
termine to be such, as he beheld its movements. He was too 
far to assault, the light was too imperfect to suffer him to shoot 
with any reasonable certainty of success, and the half of the 
reward sought by his pursuers, depended upon the outlaw being 
taken alive! 

But, there was no disappointment among the hunters. Al¬ 
lowing the outlaw sufficient time to return to his retreats, Chub 
Williams slipped down his tree—the rest of the party slowly 
emerged from their several places of watch, and drew together 
for consultation. 

In this matter, the idiot could give them little help. He 
could, and did, describe, in some particulars, such of the inte¬ 
rior as he had been enabled to see on former occasions, but be¬ 
yond this he could do nothing; and he was resolute not to 
hazard himself in entering the dominion of a personage, so 
fearful as Guy Rivers, in such companionship as would surely 


wolf’s NECK — CAPTURE. 


463 


compel the wolf to turn at bay. Alone, his confidence in his 
own stealth and secresy, would encourage him to penetrate; 
but, now / — he only grinned at the suggestion of the hunters; 
saying shrewdly: “No! thank you! I’ll stay out hero and 
keep Chub’s company.” 

Accordingly, he remained without, closely gathered up into 
a lump, behind a tree, while the more determined Georgians 
penetrated with cautious pace into the dark avenue, known in 
the earlier days of the settlement as a retreat for the wolves 
when they infested that portion of the country, and hence dis¬ 
tinguished by the appellation of the Wolfs Neck. 

For some time they groped onward in great uncertainty as 
to their course; but a crevice in the wall, at one point, gave 
them a glimmer of the moonlight, which, falling obliquely upon 
the sides of the cavern, enabled them to discern the mouth of 
another gorge diverging from that in which they were. They 
entered, and followed this new route, until their farther progress 
was arrested by a solid wall which seemed to close them in, 
hollowly caved from all quarters, except the one narrow point 
from which they had entered it. 

Here, then, they were at a stand; but, according to Chub’s 
directions, there must be a mode of ingress to still another cham¬ 
ber from this; and they prepared to seek it in the only possible 
way; namely, by feeling along the wall for the opening which 
their eye had failed to detect. They had to do this on hands 
and knees, so low was the rock along the edges of the cavern. 

The search was finally successful. One of the party found 
the wall to give beneath his hands. There was an aperture, a 
mere passage-way for wolf or bear, lying low in the wall, and 
only closed by a heavy curtain of woollen. 

This was an important discovery. The opening led directly 
into the chamber of the outlaw. How easily it could be de¬ 
fended, the hunters perceived at a glance. The inmate of the 
cavern, if wakeful and courageous, standing above the gorge 
with a single hatchet, could brain every assailant on the first 
appearance of his head. How serious, then, the necessity of 
being able to know that the occupant of the chamber slept — 
that occupant being Guy Rivers. The pursuers well knew 
what they might expect at his hands, driven to his last fastness* 


464 


GUY RIVERS. 


with the spear of the hunter at his throat. Did he sleep, then 
—the man who never slept, according to the notion of his fol¬ 
lowers, or with one eye always open! 

He did sleep, and never more soundly than now, when safe¬ 
ty required that he should he most on the alert. But there is a 
limit to the endurance of the most iron natures, and the outlaw 
had overpassed his bounds of strength. He was exhausted by 
trying and prolonged excitements, and completely broken down 
by physical efforts which would have destroyed most other men 
outright. His subdued demeanor—his melancholy — -were all 
due to this condition of absolute exhaustion. He slept, not a 
refreshing sleep, but one in which the excited spirit kept up its 
exercises, so as totally to neutralize what nature designed as 
compensation in his slumbers. His sleep was the drowse of in¬ 
capacity, not the wholesome respite of elastic faculties. It was 
actual physical imbecility, rather than sleep; and, while the 
mere animal man, lay incapable, like a log, the diseased ima¬ 
gination was at work, conjuring up its spectres as wildly and 
as cliangingly, as the wizard of the magic-lanthorn evokes his 
monsters against the wall. 

His limbs writhed while he slept. His tongue was busy in 
audible speech. He had no secrets, in that mysterious hour, 
from night, and silence, and his dreary rocks. His dreams told 
him of no other auditors. 

The hunter, who had found and raised the curtain that sep¬ 
arated his chamber from the gloomy gorges of the crag, paused, 
and motioned his comrades back, while he listened. At first 
there was nothing but a deep and painful breathing. The out¬ 
law breathed with effort, and the sigh became a groan, and lie 
writhed upon the bed of moss which formed his usual couch in 
the cavern. Had the spectator been able to sec,the lamp sus¬ 
pended from a ring in the roof of the cavern, though burning 
very dimly, would have shown him the big-headed drops of 
sweat that now started from the brows of the sleeper. But he 
could hear; and now a word, a name, falls from the outlaw’s 
Uns — it is followed by murmured imprecations. The feverish 
frame, tortured by the restless and guilt-goading spirit, writhed 
as lie delivered the curses in broken accents. These, finally, 
grew into perfect sentences. 


wolf’s NECK—CAPTURE. 


466 


“ Dying like a dog, in her sight! Ay, she shall see it! I 
will hiss in her ears as she gazes —* It is my work ! this is my 
revenge!’ Ha* ha! where her pride then?—her high birth 
and station?—wealth, family? Dust, 6hame, agony, and 
death!” 

Such were the murmured accents of the sleeping man, when 
they were distinguishable by the hunter, who, crouching beneath 
the curtain, listened to his sleeping speech. But all was not ex¬ 
ultation. The change from the voice of triumph to that of wo 
was instantaneous; and the curse and the cry, as of one in mor¬ 
tal ago:«iy, pain or terror, followed the exulting speech. 

The Georgian, now apprehensive that the outlaw would 
awaken, crept forward, and, still upon his hands and knees, 
was now fairly within the vaulted chamber. He was closely fol¬ 
lowed by one of his companions. Hitherto, they had proceed¬ 
ed with great caution, and with a stealth and silence that were 
almost perfect. But the third of the party to enter — who was 
Brooks, the jailer—more eager, or more unfortunate, less pru¬ 
dent certainly—not sufficiently stooping, as the other two had 
done, or rising too soon — contrived to strike with his head the 
pole which bore the curtain, and which, morticed in the sides of 
the cavern, ran completely across the awkward entrance. A 
ringing noise was the consequence, while Brooks himself was 
precipitated back into the passage, with a smart cut over his 
brows. 

The noise was not great, but quite sufficient to dissipate the 
slumbers of the outlaw, whose sleep was never sound. With 
that decision and fierce courage which marked his character, he 
sprang to his feet in an instant, grasped the dirk which he al¬ 
ways carried in his bosom, and leaped forward, like a tiger, in 
the direction of the narrow entrance. Familiar with all the 
sinuosities of his den, as well in daylight as in darkness, the 
chances might have favored him even with two powerful ene¬ 
mies within it. Certainly, had there been but one, he could have 
dealt with him, and kept out others. But the very precipitation 
of the jailer, while it occasioned the alann, had the effect, in 
me particular, of neutralizing its evil consequences. The two 
who had already penetrated the apartment, had not yet risen 
from their knees-—in the dim light of the lamp, they remained 

20 * 


GUY RIVERS. 


unseen—they were crouching, indeed, directly under the lamp, 
vhe rays of which lighted dimly the extremes, rather than the 
centre of the cell. They lay in the way of the outlaw, as he 
sprang, and, as he dashed forward from his couch toward the 
passage-way, his feet were caught by the Georgian who had 
first entered, and so great was the impetus cf his first awaken¬ 
ing effort, that he was precipitated with a severe fall over the 
second of the party; and, half stunned, yet still striking furi 
ously, the dirk of Rivers found a bloodless sheath in the earth¬ 
en floor of the cell. In a moment, the two were upon him, and 
by the mere weight of their bodies alone, they kept him down. 

“ Surrender, Guy ! we’re too much for you, old fellow!” 

There was a short struggle. Meanwhile, Brooks, the jailer, 
joined the party. 

We’re three on you, and there’s more without.” 

The outlaw was fixed to the ground, beneath their united 
weight, as firmly as if the mountain itself was on him. As soon 
as he became conscious of the inutility of further struggle—and 
he could now move neither hand nor foot—he ceased all further 
effort; like a wise man economizing his strength for future oc¬ 
casions. Without difficulty the captors bound him fast, then 
dragged him through the narrow' entrance, the long rocky 
gorges which they had traversed, until they all emerged into 
the serene light of heaven, at the entrance of the cavern. 

Here the idiot boy encountered them, now coming forward 
boldly, and staring in the face of the captive with a confidence 
which he had never known before. He felt that his fangs w'ert 
drawn; and his survey of the person his mother had taught hiir. 
so to dread, was as curious as that which he would have t'.ken 
of some foreign monster. As he continued this survey, Rivers, 
with a singular degree of calmness for such a time, and such 
circumstances, addressed him thus:— 

“So, Chub, this is your work;—you have brought enemies 
to my home, boy ! Why have you done this ? What have I 
done to you, but good ? I gave bread to your mother and your¬ 
self!” 

“ Psho ! Chub is to have his own bread, his own corn, and 
'Inters, too, and a whole jug h whiskey.’ 

“ Ah ! you have sold yourself for these, then, to my enemiet. 


wolf’s neck-CAPTURE. 467 

You are a bad fellow, Chub—a worse fellow than I thought you. 
As an idiot, I fancied you might be honest and grateful.” 

“ You’re bad yourself, Mr. Guy. You cursed Chub, and you 
cursed Chub’s mother; and your man burnt down Chub’s house, 
and you wanted to shoot Chub on the tree.” 

“ But I didn’t shoot, Chub; and I kept the men from shoot¬ 
ing you when you ran away from the cave.” 

“ You can’t shoot now,” answered the idiot, with an exulting 
chuckle; “and they’ll keep you in the ropes, Mr. Guy; they’ve 
got you on your back, Mr. Guy ; and I’m going to laugh at you 
all the way as you go. Ho ! ho! ho ! See if I don’t laugh, 
till I scares away all your white owls from the roost.” 

The outlaw looked steadily in the face of the wretched ur¬ 
chin, with a curious interest, as he half murmured to himself:— 

“ And that I should fall a victim to such a thing as this! 
The only creature, perhaps, whom I spared or pitied—so 
wretched, yet so ungrateful. But there is an instinct in it. It 
is surely in consequence of a law of nature. He hates in pro¬ 
portion as he fears. Yet he has had nothing but protection 
from me, and kindness. Nothing! I spared him, when— 
but—” as if suddenly recollecting himself, and speaking aloud 
and with recovered dignity :— 

“ I am your prisoner, gentlemen. Do with me as you 
please.” 

“ Hurrah ! ” cried the urchin, as he beheld the troopers lift¬ 
ing and securing the outlaw upon the horse, while one of the 
party leaped up behind him—one of his hands managing the 
bridle, and the other grasping firmly the rope which secured 
the captive; “ hurrah ! Guy’s in the rope ! Guy’s in the rope ! ” 

Ihus cried the urchin, following close behind the party, upon 
his mountain-tacky. That cry, from such a quarter, more sen¬ 
sibly than anything besides, mocked the outlaw with the fullest 
sense of his present impotence. With a bitter feeling of humili¬ 
ation, his head dropped upon his breast, and he seemed to lose 
all regard to his progress. Daylight found him safely locked 
up in the jail of Chestatee, the occupant of the very cell from 
which Colleton had escaped. 

But no such prospect of escape was before him. He could 
command none of the sympathies that had worked for his rival. 


468 


GUY RIVERS. 


He had no friends left. Munro was slain, Dillon gone, and 
even the miserable idiot had turned his fangs upon the hand 
that fed him. Warned, too, by the easy escape of Colleton, 
Brooks attended no more whiskey-parties, nor took his brother- 
in-law Tongs again into his friendly counsels. More—he doubly 
ironed his prisoner, whose wiles and resources he had more rea¬ 
son to fear than those which his former captive could command. 
To cut off more fully every hope which the outlaw might enter¬ 
tain of escape from his bonds and durance, a detachment of the 
Georgia guard, marching into the village that very day, was 
put in requisition, by the orders of the judge, for the better 
security of the prisoner, and of public order. 


QUIRT PASSAGES AND NEW RELATIONS. 


469 


CHAPTER XLI. 

QUIET PASSAGES AND NEW RELATIONS. 

W k have already reported the return of Lucy Munro to the 
village-inn of Cliestatee. Here, to her own and the surprise of 
all other parties, her aunt was quietly reinstated in her old au¬ 
thority—a more perfect one now — as housekeeper of that 
ample mansion. The reasons which determined her liege upon 
her restoration to the household have been already reported to 
the reader. His prescience as to his own approaching fate was 
perhaps not the least urgent among them. He fortunately left 
her in possession, and we know how the law estimates this ad¬ 
vantage. Of her trials and sorrows, when she was made aware 
of her widowhood, we will say nothing. Sensitive natures will 
easily conjecture their extent and intensity. It is enough for 
the relief of such natures, if we say that the widow Munro was 
not wholly inconsolable. As a good economist, a sensible wo¬ 
man, with an eye properly regardful of the future, we are bound 
to suppose that she needed no lessons from Hamlet’s mother to 
make the cold baked funeral-meats answer a double purpose. 

But what of her niece? We are required to be something 
more full and explicit in speaking to her case. The indisposi¬ 
tion of Lucy was not materially diminished by the circumstances 
following the successful effort to persuade the landlord to the 
rescue of Ralph Colleton. The feverish excitements natural to 
that event, and even the fruit of its fortunate issue, in the death 
of Munro, for whcm she really had a grateful regard, were not 
greatly lessened, though certainly something relieved, by the 
capture of Rivers, and -is identification, with the outlawed 
Creighton. She was now secure from him: she had nothing 
further to apprehend from the prosecution of his fearful suit ; 
and the death of her uncle, even if the situation of Rivers had 


4 70 


GUY RIVERS. 


left him free to urge it farther, would, of itself, have relieved 
her from the only difficulty in the way of a resolute denial. 

So far, then, she was at peace. But a silent sorrow had made 
its way into her bosom, gnawing there with the noiselessness 
and certainty of the imperceptible worm, generated by the sun¬ 
light, in the richness of the fresh leaf, and wound up within its 
folds. She had no word of sorrow in her speech — she had no 
tear of sorrow in her eye — but there was a vacant sadness in 
the vague and wan expression of her face, that needed neither 
tears nor words for its perfect development. She was the vic¬ 
tim of a passion which — as hers was a warm and impatient 
spirit—was doubly dangerous; and the greater pang of that 
passion came with the consciousness, which now she could no 
longer doubt, that it was entirely unrequited. She had btheld 
the return of Ralph Colleton; she had heard from other lips 
than his of his release, and of the atoning particulars of her 
uncle’s deati, in which he furnished all that was necessary in 
the way of testimony to the youth’s enlargement and security; 
and though she rejoiced, fervently and deeply, at the knowledge 
that so much had been done for him, and so much by herself, 
she yet found 1.0 relief from the deep sadness of soul which 
necessarily came with her hopelessness. Busy tongues dwelt 
upon the loveliness of the Carolina maiden who had sought him 
in his prison — of her commanding stature, her elegance of form, 
her dignity of manner and expression, coupled with the warmth 
of a devoted love and a passionate admiration of the youth who 
had also so undesiringly made the conquest of her own heart. 
She heard all this in silence, but not without thought. She 
thought of nothing besides. The forms and images of the two 
happy lovers were before her eyes at all moments; and her 
active fancy pictured their mutual loves in colors so rich and 
warm, that, in utter despondency at last, she would throw her¬ 
self listlessly upon her couch, with sometimes an unholy hope 
that she might never again rise from it. 

But she was not forgotten. The youth she had so much 
served, and so truly saved, was neither thoughtless nor ungrate¬ 
ful. Having just satisfied those most*near and dear to him of 
his safety, and of the impunity which, after a few brief forms 
of law, the dying confession of the landlord would crive him,* 


QUIET PASSAGES AND NEW RELATIONS. 


471 


and having taken, in the warm embrace of a true love, the form 
of the no-longer-withheld Edith to his arms, he felt that his 
next duty was to her for whom his sense of gratitude soon dis¬ 
covered that every form of acknowledgment must necessarily 
prove weak. 

At an early hour, therefore—these several duties having been 
done—Ralph made his appearance at the village-inn, and the 
summons of the youth soon brought Lucy from her chamber. 

She came freely and without hesitation, though her heart was 
tremulous with doubt and sorrow. She had nothing now to 
learn of her utter hopelessness, and her strength was gathered 
from her despair. Ralph was shocked at the surprising rav¬ 
ages which a few days of indisposition had made upon that fine 
and delicate richness of complexion and expression which had 
marked her countenance before, ilo had no notion that she 
was unhappy beyond the cure of time. On the contrary, with 
a modesty almost akin to dullness—having had no idea of his 
own influence over the maiden—he was disposed to regard the 
recent events — the death of Munro and the capture of Rivers 
— as they relieved her from a persecution which had been cru¬ 
elly distressing, rather calculated to produce a degree of relief, 
to which she had not for a long time been accustomed; and 
which, though mingled up with events that prevented it from 
being considered matter for rejoicing, was yet not a matter for 
one in her situation very greatly to deplore. 

Her appearance, however, only made him more assiduously 
gentle and affectionate in the duties he had undertaken to perform. 
He approached her with the freedom of one warranted by cir¬ 
cumstances in recognising in her person a relation next to the 
sweetest and the dearest in life. With the familiar regard of a 
brother, he took her hand, and, placing her beside him on the 
rude sofa of the humble parlor, he proceeded to those little in¬ 
quiries after her health, and of those about her, which usually 
form the opening topics of all conversation. He proceeded then 
to remind her of that trying night, when, in defiance of female 
fears, and laudably regardless of those staid checks and re¬ 
straints by which her sex would conceal or defend its weaknes¬ 
ses, she had dared to save his life. 

His manner, generally warm and eager, dilated something 


472 


GUY RIVERS. 


beyond its wont; and if ever gratitude had yet its expression 
from human lips and in human language, it was poured forth at 
that moment from his into the ears of Lucy Munro. 

Ami she felt its truth; she relied upon the uttered words of 
the speaker; and her eyes grew bright with a momentary kin¬ 
dling, her cheek flushed under his glance, while her heart, losing 
something of the chillness which had so recently oppressed it, 
felt lighter and loss desolate in that abode of sadness and sweet- 
noss, the bosom in which it dwelt. 

Yet, after all, when thought came again under the old aspect 
— when she remembered his situation and her own, she felt the 
shadow once more come o^or her with an icy influence. It was 
not gratitude which her heart craved from that of Ralph Colle¬ 
ton. The praise and the approval and the thanks of others 
might, have given her pleasure, but these were not enough from 
him; and she sighed that he from whom alone love would be 
precious, had nothing len 5 - frigid than gratitude to offer. But 
even that was much, and she felt it deeply. His approbation 
was not a little to a spirit whose reference to him was perpet¬ 
ual ; and when - -her hand in his — he recounted the adventures 
of that night -when lie dwelt upon her courage—upon her 
noble disregard of opinions which might have chilled in many 
of her sex the tine natural currents of that godlike humanity 
which conventional forms, it is well to think, can not always 
fetter or abridge—when he expatiated upon all these things 
with all the fervor of his temperament—she with a due mod¬ 
esty, shrinking from the recital of her own performances — she 
felt every moment additional pleasure in his speech of praise. 
When, at length, relating the particulars of the escape and 
death of Munro, he proceeded, with all the tender caution of a 
brother, softening the sorrow into sadness, and plucking from 
grief as much of the sting as would else have caused the wound 
to rankle, she felt that though another might sway his heart 
and its richer affections, she was not altogether destitute of its 
consideration and its care. 

“And now, Lucy — my sweet sister—for my sister you are 
now—you will accede to your uncle’s prayer and mine-—you 
will permit me to 1 e your brother, and to provide for you as 
*meh In t is wild region it fits not that you should longer 


QUIET PA8SAGES AND NEW RELATIONS. 


473 


abide. This wilderness is uncongenial — it is foreign to a na¬ 
ture like yours. You have been too long its tenant —mingling 
with creatures not made for your association, none of whom are 
capable of appreciating your worth. You must come with us, 
and live with my uncle — with my cousin Edith—” 

“Edith?”—and she looked inquiringly, while a slight flush 
of the cheek and kindling of the eye in him followed the utter¬ 
ance of the single word by her, and accompanied his reply. 

“Yes, Edith—Edith Colleton, Lucy, is the name of my 
cousin, and the relationship will soon be something closer be¬ 
tween us. You will love her, and she, I know, will love you 
as a sister, and as the preserver of one so very humble as my¬ 
self. It was a night of danger when you first heard her name, 
and saw her features; and wli- n you and she will converse over 
that night and its events, I feel satisfied that it will bring you 
both only the closer to one another.” 

“We will not talk of it farther, Mr. Colleton—I would not 
willingly hear of it again. It is enough that you are now free 
from all such danger — enough that all things promise well for 
the future. Let not any thought of past evil, or of risk suc¬ 
cessfully encountered, obscure the prospect—let no thought of 
me produce an emotion, hostile, even for a moment, to your 
peace.” 

“ And why should you think, my sweet girl, and with an air 
of such profound sorrow, that such a thought must be productive 
of such an emotion. Why should the circumstances so happily 
terminating, though perilous at first, necessarily bring sorrow 
with remembrance. Surely you are now but exhibiting tie*, 
sometimes coy perversity which is ascribed to your sex. You 
are now, in a moment of calm, but assuming those winning 
playfulnesses of a sex, conscious of charm and power, which, 
in a time of danger, your more masculine thought had rejected 
as unbecoming. You forget, Lucy, that I have you in charge 
—that you are now my sister—that my promise to your de¬ 
parted uncle, not less than my own desire to that effect, makes 
me your guardian for the future—and that I am now come, 
hopeful of success, to take you with me to my own country, and 
to bring yon acquainted with her — (I must keep no secret from 


471 


GUY RIVERS. 


you, who are my sister) — who has my heart—who — but yoi, 
are sick, Lucy. What means this emotion ?” 

“Nothing, nothing, Mr. Colleton. A momentary weakness 
from my late indisposition—it will soon be over. Indeed, I 
am already well. Go on, sir- - go on!” 

“ Lucy, why these titles 1 Why such formality ? Speak to 
me as if I were the new friend, at least, if you will not behold 
in me an old one. I have received too much good service from 
you to permit of this constraint. Call me Ralph — or Colleton 
— or—or—nay, look not so coldly — why not call me your 
brother ?” 

“Brother—brother be it then, Ralph Colleton—brother — 
brother. God knows, I need a brother now!” and the ice of 
her manner was thawed quickly by his appeal, in which her 
accurate sense, sufficiently unclouded usually by her feelings, 
though themselves at all times strong, discovered only the 
honest earnestness of truth. 

“Ah, now, you look — and now you are indeed my sister. 
Hear me, then, Lucy, and listen to all my plans. You have 
not seen Edith—my Edith now—you must be her sister too. 
She is now. or will be soon, something nearer to me than a 
sister — she is something dearer already. We shall immediately 
return to Carolina, and you will go along with us.” 

“It may not be, Ralph — I have determined otherwise. 1 
will be your sister — as truly so as sister possibly could be — 
but I can not go with you. I have made other arrangements.” 

The youth looked up in astonishment. The manner of the 
i 'den was very resolute, and he knew not what to understand. 
S ' proceeded, as she saw his amazement:— 

“ It may not be as you propose, Mr.— Ralph—my brother — 
circumstances have decreed another arrangement—another, 
and perhaps a less grateful destiny for me.” 

“ But why, Lucy, if a less pleasant, or at least a doubtful 
arrangement, why yield to it — why reject my solicitation? 
What is the plan to which, I am sad to see, you so unhesita¬ 
tingly give the preference ?” 

“Not unhesitatingly — not unhesitatingly, I assure you. I 
have thought upon it deeply and long, and the decision is that of 
my cooler thought and calmer judgment. It may be in a thou* 


QUIET PASSAGES AND NEW RELATIONS. 


475 


sand respects a less grateful arrangement than that which you 
offer me; but, at least, it will want one circumstance which 
would couple itself with your plan, and which would alone 
prompt me to deny myself all its other advantages.” 

“ And what is that one circumstance, dear Lucy, which af¬ 
frights you so much? Let me know. What peculiarity of 
mine—what thoughtless impropriety—what association, which 
I may remove, thus prevents your acceptance of my offer, mid 
that of Edith? Speak—spare me not in what you shall say 
—but let your thoughts have their due language, just as if you 
were — as indeed you are — my sister.” 

“ Ask me not, Ralph. I may not utter it. It roust not be 
whispered to myself, though I perpetually hear it. It is no 
impropriety—no peculiarity—no wrong thought or deed of 
yours, that occasions it. The evil is in me; and hence you 
can do nothing which can possibly change my determination.” 

“ Strange, strange girl! What mystery is this ? Where is 
now that feeling of confidence, which led you to comply with 
my prayer, and consider me as your brother ? Why keep this 
matter from me — why withhold any particular, the knowledge 
of which might be productive of a remedy for all the difficulty.” 

“Never—never. The knowledge of it would be destructive 
of all beside. It would be fatal — seek not, therefore, to know 
it—it would profit you nothing, and me ii would crush for 
ever to the earth. Hear me, Ralph—my brother !—hear me. 
Hitherto you have known me — I am proud to think—as a 
strong-minded woman, heedless oi all things in her desire for 
the good — for the right. In a moment of peril to you or to 
another, I would be the same woman. But the strength which 
supports through the trial, subsides when it is over. The 
ship that battles with the storms and the seas, with something 
like a kindred buoyancy, goes down with the calm that follows 
their violence. It is so with me. I could do mtich—much 
more than woman generally—in the day of trial, but lam the 
weakest of my sex when it is over. Would you have the 
secret of these weaknesses in your possession, when you must 
know that the very consciousness, that it is beyond my own 
control, must be fatal to that pride of sex which, perhaps, only 
sustains me now ? Ask me not further, Ralph, on this subject. 


GUY RIVERS. 


476 

I can tell you nothing; I will tell you nothing; and to press 
me farther must only be to estrange me the more. It is suffi¬ 
cient that I call you brother—that I pledge myself to love 
you as a sister -as sister never loved brother before. This is 
as much as I can do, Ralph Colleton — is it not enough ?” 

The youth tried numberless arguments and entreaties, but in 
vain, to shake her purpose; and the sorrowful expression of his 
voice and manner, not less than of his language, sufficiently as¬ 
sured her of the deep mortification which he felt upon her deni¬ 
al. She soothed his spirit with a gentleness peculiarly her own, 
and, rji if she had satisfied herself that she had done enough for 
tho delicacy of her scruples in one leading consideration, she 
took care that her whole manner should be that of the most 
confiding aud sisterly regard. She even endeavored to be 
cheerful, seeing that her companion, with her unlooked-for 
denial, had lost all his elasticity; but without doing much to 
efface from his countenance the traces of dissatisfaction. 

“ And what are your plans, Lucy h Let me know them, at 
least. Let rue s.-o how far they are likely to be grateful to 
y 'ur character, and to make you happy.” 

“ Happy ! happy!” and she uttered but the two words, with 
a brief interval between them, while her voice trembled, and the 
gathering suffusion ; n her large and thickly-fringed blue eyes at¬ 
tested, more than anything besides, the prevailing weakness of 
which she had spoken. 

“ Ay, happy, Lucy! That is the word. You must not be 
permitted to choose a lot in life, in which the chances are not 
in favor of your happiness.” 

“ I look not for that now, Ralph,” was her reply, and with 
such hopeless despondency visible in her face as she spoke, 
that,‘with a deeper interest, taking her hand, he again urged 
the request she had already so recently denied. 

“ And why not, my sweet sister 1 Why should you not an¬ 
ticipate happiness as well as tho rest of us ] Who has a better 
right to happiness than the young, the gentle, the beautiful, the 
good ?— and you are all of these, Lucy! You have'the charms 
—the richer and more lasting charms—which, in the reflective 
mind, must always awaken admiration! You have animation, 
talent, various and active—sentiment, the growth of truth, pro 


QUIET PASSAGES AXP NEW RELATIONS. 


477 


priety, mid a lofty aim—no flippancy, rio weak vanity—and a 
gentle beauty, that woos while it warms.” 

Her face became very grave, as she drew back from him. 

“ Nav, my sweet Lucy ! why do you repulse me ? I speak 
nothing but the truth.” 

“ You mock me ! —I pray you, mock me not. I have suffered 
much, Mr. Colleton — very much, in the few last years of my life, 
from the biieer, and the scorn, and the control of others ! But I 
have been taught to hope for different treatment, and a far gen¬ 
tler estimate. It is ill in you to take up the speech of smaller 
spirits, and when the sufferer is one so weak, so poor, so very 
wretched as I am now! I had not looked for such scorn from 
you!” 

Ralph was confounded. Was this caprice? He had never 
seen any proof of the presence of such an infirmity in her. And 
vet, how could he account for those strange words—that man¬ 
ner so full of offended pride ? What had he been saying ? How 
had sho misconceived him? He took her hand earnestly in his 
own. She. would have withdrawn it; but no ! — he held it fast, 
and looked pleadingly into her face, as he replied :— 

“Surely, Lucy, you do me wrong! How could you think 
that I would design to give you pain? Do you really estimate 
me by so low a standard, that my voice, when it speaks in 
praise and homage, is held to be the voice of vulgar flattery, 
and designing falsehood ?” 

“Oh, no, Ralph ! not that — anything but that!” 

“That 1 should sneer at you, Lucy—feel or utter scorn— 
you, to whom I owe so much ! Have I then been usually so 
flippant of speech—a trifler—when we have spoken together 
before? — the self-assured fopling, with fancied superiority, 
seeking to impose upon the vain spirit and the simple confi¬ 
dence ? Surely, I have never given you cause to think of mo 
so meanly !” 

“ No ! no ! forgive me ! I know not what I have said ! I 
meant nothing so unkind — so unjust!” 

“ Lucy, your esteem is one of my most precious desires. 
To secure it, I would do much — strive earnestly—make many 
sacrifices of self. Certainly, for this object, I should be always 
truthful.” 


478 


GUY RIVERS. 


“ You are, Ralph ! I believe you.” 

“ When I praised you, I did not mean merely to praise. I 
sought rather to awaken you to a just appreciation of your own 
claims upon a higher order of society than that which you can 
possibly find in this frontier region. I have spoken only the 
simple truth of your charms and accomplishments. I have felt 
them, Lucy, and paint them only as they are. Your beauties 
of mind and person—” 

“ Oh, do not, I implore you !” 

“ Yes, I must, Lucy! though of these beauties I should not 
have spoken—should not now speak — were it not that I feel 
sure that your superior understanding would enable you to 
listen calmly to a voice, speaking from my heart to yours, and 
speaking nothing but a truth which it honestly believes! And 
it is your own despondency, and humility of soul, that prompts 
me thus to speak in your praise. There is no good reason, 
Lucy, why you should not be happy—why fond hearts should 
not be rejoiced to win your sympathies — why fond eyes should 
not look gladly and gratefully for the smiles of yours! You car¬ 
ry treasures into society, Lucy, which society will everywhere 
value as beyond price !” 

“Ah! why will you, sir — why, Ralph?—” 

“ You must not sacrifice yourself, Lucy. You must not de¬ 
fraud society of its rights. In a more refined circle, whose 
chances of happiness will be more likely to command than 
yours? You must go with me and Edith—go to Carolina. 
There you will find the proper homage. You will see the gen¬ 
erous and the noble;—they will seek you—honorable gentle¬ 
men, proud of your favor, happy in your smiles — glad to offer 
you homes and hearts, such as shall be not unworthy of your 
own.” 

The girl heard him, but with no strengthening of self-confi¬ 
dence. The thought which occurred to her, which spoke of her 
claims, was that he had not found them so coercive. But, of 
course, she did not breathe the sentimeut. She only sighed, 
and shook her head mournfully ; replying, after a brief pause :— 

“ I must not hear you, Ralph. I thank you, I thank Miss 
Colleton, for the kindness of this invitation, but I dare not ac¬ 
cept it. I can not go with you to Carolina. My lot is here, 


QUIET PASSAGES AND NEW RELATIONS. 479 

with my aunt, or where she goes. I must not desert her. She 
is now even more destitute than myself.” 

“ Impossible ! Why, Lucy, your aunt tells me that she means 
to continue in this establishment. How can you reconcile it to 
yourself to remain here, with the peril of encountering the as¬ 
sociations, such as we have already known them, which seem 
naturally to belong to such a border region.” 

“ You forget, Ralph, that it was here I met with you,” was 
the sudden reply, with a faint smile upon her lips. 

“ Yes; and I was driven here by a fate, against my will — 
that w q should meet, Lucy. But though we are both here, now, 
the region is unseemly to both, and neither need remain an hour 
longer than it is agreeable. Why should you remain out of your 
sphere, and exposed to every sort of humiliating peril.” 

“You forget—my aunt.” 

“Ay, but what security is there that she will not give you 
another uncle V’ 

“ Oh, fie, Ralph !” 

“Ay, she is too feeble of will, too weak, to be independent. 
She will marry again, Lucy, and is not the woman to choose 
wisely. Besides, she is not your natural aunt. She is so by 
marriage only. The tie between you is one which gives her no 
proper claim upon you.” 

“ She has. been kind to me, Ralph.” 

“ Yet she would have seen you sacrificed to this outlaw !” 

Lucy shuddered. He continued :— 

“ Her kindness, lacking strength and courage, would leave 
you still to be sacrificed, whenever a will, stronger than her 
own, should choose to assert a power over you. She can do 
nothing for you—not even for your security. You must not 
remain here, Lucy.” 

“ Frankly, then, Ralph, I do not mean to do so long; nor 
does my aunt mean it. She is feeble, as you say; and, know¬ 
ing it, I shall succeed in persuading her to sell out here, and 
we shall then remove to a more civilized region, to a better 
society, where, indeed, if you knew it, you weald find nothing 
to regret, and see no reason to apprehend either for my securi¬ 
ties or tastes. We shall seek refuge among my kindred 
—among the relatives of my mother—and I shall there be 


480 


GUY RIVERS. 


&9 perfectly at home, and quite as happy, as 1 can be any¬ 
where.” 

“ And where is it that you go, Lucy V 9 

“ Forgive me, Ralph, but I must not tell you.” 

“ Not tell me !” 

“ Better that I should not—better, far better ! The duties 
for which the high Providence brought us together have been, 
I think, fairly accomplished. I have done my part, and you, 
Mr. Colleton—Ralph, I mean—you have done yours. There 
is nothing more that we may not do apart. Here, then, let our 
conference end. It is enough that you have complied with the 
dying wish of my uncle — that I have not, is not your fault.” 

“ Mot my fault, Lucy, but truly my misfortune. But I give 
not up my hope so easily. I still trust that you will think bet¬ 
ter of your determination, and conclude to go with us. We 
have a sweet home, and should not be altogether so happy in 
it. with the thought of your absence for ever in our minds.” 

“ What!—not happy, and she with you !” 

“ Happy !—yes ! —but far happier with both of you. You, 
my sister, and—” 

“ Say no more —” 

“No more now, but I shall try other lips, perhaps more per¬ 
suasive than mine. Edith shall come—” 

His words were suddenly arrested by the energetic speech 
and action of his companion. She put her hand on his wrist— 
grasped it — and exclaimed — 

“ Let her not come! Bring her not here, Ralph Colleton! 
I have no wish to see her — will not see her, I tell you—would 
not have her see me for the world!” 

Ralph was confounded, and recoiled from the fierce, spas¬ 
modic energy of the speaker, so very much at variance with 
the subdued tone of her previous conversation. He little knew 
what an effort was required hitherto, on her part, to maintain 
that tone, and to speak coolly and quietly of those fortunes, 
every thought of which brought only disappointment and agony 
to her bosom. 

She dropped his hand as she concluded, and with eyes still 
fixed upon him, she half turned round, as if about to leave the 
room. But the crisis of her emotions was reached. She sick- 


QUIET PASSAGES AND NEW RELATIONS. 


4»1 


ened with the effort. Her limbs grew too weak to sustain her, 
a sudden faintness overspread all her faculties—her eyes closed 
— she gasped hysterically, and tottering forward, she sank un¬ 
conscious into the arms of Ralph, which were barely stretched 
out in time to save her from falling to the floor. He bore her 
to the sofa, and laid her down silently upon it. 

He was struck suddenly with the truth to which he had hith¬ 
erto shown himself so blind. He would have been the blindest 
and most obtuse of mortals, did he now fail to see. That last 
speech, that last look, and the fearful paroxysm which followed 
it, had revealed the poor girl’s secret. Its discovery over¬ 
whelmed him, at once with the consciousness of his previous 
and prolonged dullness — which was surely mortifying—as 
with the more painful consciousness of the evil which he had 
unwittingly occasioned. But the present situation of the gentle 
victim called for immediate attention; and, hastily darting out 
to another apartment, he summoned Mrs. Munro to the succor 
of her niece. 

“ What is the matter, Mr. Colleton ?” 

“ She faints,” answered the other hoarsely, as he hurried the 
widow into the chamber. 

“Bless my soul, wdiat can be the matter!” 

The wondering of the hostess was not permitted to consume 
her time and make her neglectful; Colleton did not suffer this. 
He hurried her with the restoratives, and saw them applied, 
and waiting only till he could be sure of the recovery of the 
patient, he hurried away, without giving the aunt any oppor¬ 
tunity to examine him in respect to the cause of Lucy’s illness. 

Greatly excited, and painfully so, Ralph hastened at once to 
the lodgings of Edith. She was luckily alone. She cried out, 
as he entered — 

“Well, Ralph, she will come with us?” 

“No!” 

“ No !—and why not, Ralph ! I must go and see her.” 

“ She will not see you, Edith.” 

“ Not see me h 1 ’ 

“ No ! She positively declines to see you.” 

“ Why, Ralph, that is very strange. What can it mean]” 

21 


482 


GUY RIVERS. 


“ Mean, Edith, it means that I am very unfortunate. I have 
been a blind fool if nothing worse.” 

“ Why, what can you mean, Ralph. What is this new mys¬ 
tery 1 This is, surely, a place of more marvels than—” 

“ Ilear me, Edith, my love, and tell me what you think. I 
am bewildered, mortified, confounded.” 

He proceeded, as well as he could, to relate what had oc¬ 
curred ; to give, not only the words, but to describe the man¬ 
ner of Lucy—so much of it had been expressed in this way — 
and he concluded, with a warm suffusion of his cheeks, to men¬ 
tion the self-flattering conclusion to which he had come: — 

“Now, Edith, you who know me so well, tell me, can you 
think it possible that I have done, or said anything which has 
been calculated to make her suppose that I loved her—that I 
sought her. In short, do you think me capable of playing the 
scoundrel. I feel that I have been blind—something of a fool, 
Edith — but, on my soul, I can not recall a moment in which I 
have said or shown anything to this poor girl which was unbe¬ 
coming in the gentleman.” 

The maiden looked at him curiously. At first there was 
something like an arch smile playing upon her lips and in her 
light lively eyes. But when she noted how real was his 
anxiety — how deeply and keenly he felt his own doubt— 
she felt that the little jest which occurred to her fancy, would 
be unseemly and unreasonable. So, she answered promptly, 
but quietly — 

" Pshaw, Ralph, how can you afflict yourself with any such 
notions 1 I have no doubt of the perfect propriety of your 
conduct; and I will venture to say that Miss Munro entertains 
no reproaches.” 

“Yet, feeling so grateful to her, Edith—and when I first 
came here, lonely, wounded and suffering every way—feeling 
so much the want of sympathy — I may have shown to her— 
almost the only being with whom I could sympathize—I may 
have shown to her a greater degree of interest, than—’ 

“ My dear Ralph, you are certainly one of the most modest 
young men of the present generation; that is, if you do not 
deceive yourself now, in your conjectures touching the state of 
Miss Munro’s affections. After all, it may be a sudden illness 


QUIET PASSAGES AND NEW RELATIONS. 483 

from exhaustion, excitement, teiror—which you have under¬ 
taken to account for by supposing her desperately in love/’ 

“ Heaven grant it be so,” answered Ralph. 

“Well, whether so or not, do not distress yourself. I will 
answer for it, you are not to blame. And here, let me whisper 
a little secret in your ears. However forbidden by all the 
wise, solemn, staid regulations of good society, there are young 
women—very few I grant you — who will, without the slight¬ 
est call for it, or provocation, suffer their little hearts to go out 
of their own keeping—-who will — I am ashamed to confess it 
— positively suffer themselves to love even where the case is 
hopeless—where no encouragement is given to them—where 
they can have no rights at all, and where they can only sigh, 
and mourn, and envy the better fortunes of other people. I 
have no doubt that Miss Munro is one of these very unsophis¬ 
ticated persons; and that you have been all the while, and only 
the innocent cause of all her troubles. I acquit you of Use 
majeste, Ralph, so put off your doleful faces.” 

“Don’t speak so carelessly of the matter, Edith. We owe 
this dear girl a heavy debt — I do, at least.” 

“ And w r e shall try and pay it, Ralph. But you must leave 
this matter to me. I will go and see Lucy.” 

“ But she refuses to see you.” 

“ I will not be refused. I will see her, and she shall see me, 
and I trust we shall succeed in taking her home with us. It 
may be, Ralph, that she will feel shy in thinking of you as a 
brother, but I will do my best to make her adopt me as a sister.” 

“My own, my generous Edith — it was ever thus—you are 
always the noble and the true. Go, then—you are right—you 
must go alone. Relieve me from this sorrow if you can. I 
need not say to you, persuade her, if in your power; for much 
I doubt whether her prospects are altogether so good as she 
has represented them to me. So line a creature must not be 
sacrificed.” 

Edith lost no time in proceeding to the dwelling and into the 
chamber o* Lucy Munro. She regarded none of the objections 
of the old lady, the aunt of her she sought, who would have 
denied her entrance. Edith’s was a spirit of the firmest mould 
.— tenacious of its purpose, and influenced by no consideration 


484 


GUY RIVERS. 


which would have jostled with the intended good. She ap» 
proached the sufferer, who lay half-conscious only on her co ich 
Lucy could not he mistaken as to the person of her visiter. 
The noble features, full of generous beauty and a warm spirit, 
breathing affection for all human things, and doubly expanded 
with benevolent sweetness when gazing down upon one need¬ 
ing and deserving of so much — all told her that the beloved 
and the betrothed of Ralph Colleton was before her. She 
looked but once; then, sighing deeply, turned her head upon 
the pillow, so as to shut out a presence so dangerously beautiful. 

But Edith was a woman whose thoughts—having deeply ex¬ 
amined the minute structure of her own heart — could now 
readily understand that of another which so nearly resembled 
it. She perceived the true course for adoption; and, bending 
gently over the despairing girl, she possessed herself of one of 
her hands, while her lips, with the most playful sweetness of 
manner, were fastened upon those of the sufferer. The speech 
of such an action was instantaneous in its effect. 

“ Oh, why are you here—why did you come ?” was the mur¬ 
mured inquiry of the drooping maiden. 

“ To know you—to love you—to win you to love me, Lucy. 
I would be worthy of your love, dear girl, if only to be grate¬ 
ful. I know how worthy you are of all of mine. I have 
heard all.” 

“No ! no ! not all — not all, or you never would be here.” 

“ It is for that very reason that I am here. I have discov¬ 
ered more than Ralph Colleton could report, and love you all 
the better, Lucy, as you can feel with me how worthy he is of 
the love of both.” 

A deep sigh escaped the lips of the lovely sufferer, and her 
face was again averted from the glance of her visiter. The 
latter passed her arm under her neck, and, sitting on the bed¬ 
side, drew Lucy’s head to her bosom. 

“ Yes, Lucy, the woman has keener instincts than the man, 
and feels even where he fails to see. Do not wonder, there¬ 
fore, that Edith Colleton knows more than her lover ever 
dreamed of. And now I come to entreat you to love me for his 
sake. You shall be my sister, Lucy, and in time you may come 
to love me for my own sake. My pleasant labor. Lucy, shall 


QUIET PASSAGES AND NEW RELATIONS. 48J; 

be to win your, love—to force you to love toe, whether you, will 
or no. We can not alter things; can not change the courses of 
the stars; can not force nature to our purposes in the stubborn 
heart or the wilful fancy: and the wise method is to accommo¬ 
date ourselves to the inevitable, and see if we can not extract 
an odor from the breeze no matter whence it blows. Now, 1 
am an only child, Lucy. I have neither brother nor sister, and 
want a friend, and need a companion, one whom I can love—" 

“You will have — have—your husband.” 

“ Yes, Lucy, and as a husband ! But I am not content. I 
must have you, also, Lucy.” 

“ Oh, no, no ! I can not—can not!” 

“ You must! I can not and will not go without you. Hear 
me. You have mortified poor Ralph very much. lie swore to 
your uncle, in his dying moments — an awful moment—that 
you should be his sister — that you should enjoy his protection. 
His own desires—mine—my father’s—all concur to make us 
resolute that Ralph shall keep his oath ! And he must! and 
you must consent to an arrangement upon which we have set 
our hearts.” 

“ To live with him —to see him daily !” murmured the suffer¬ 
ing girl. 

“Ay, Lucy,” answered the other boldly; “and to love him, 
and honor him, and sympathize with him in his needs, as a true, 
devoted woman and sister, so long as he shall prove worthy in 
your eyes and mine. I know that I am asking of you, Lucy, 
what I would ask of no ordinary woman. If I held you to be 
an ordinary woman, to whom we simply owe a debt of grati¬ 
tude, I should never dream to offer such an argument. But it 
is because you do love him, that I wish you to abide with us; 
your love hallowed by its own fires, and purifying itself, as it 
will, by the exercise of your mind upon it.” 

The cheeks of Lucy flushed suddenly, but she said nothing.. 
Edith stooped to her, and kissed her fondly. Then she spoke 
again, so tenderly, so gently, with such judicious pleading— 
appealing equally to the exquisite instincts of the loving wo¬ 
man and the thoughtful mind—that the suffering girl was 
touched. 

But she struggled ong. She was unwilling to be won. She 


486 


GUY RIVERS. 


was vexed that she was so weak : she was so weary of tfll strug¬ 
gle, and she needed sympathy and love so much! 

How many various influences had Edith to combat! how 
many were there working in her favor! What a conflict was 
it all in the poor heart of the sorrowful and loving Lucy! 

Edith was a skilful physician for the heart—skilful beyond 
her years. 

Love was the great want of Lucy. 

Edith soon persuaded her that she knew how to supply it. 
She was so solicitous, so watchful, so tender, so — 

Suddenly the eyes of Lucy gushed with a volume of tears, 
and she buried her face in Edith’s bosom; and she wept—how 
passionately! — the sobbings of an infant succeeding to the 
more wild emotions of the soul, and placing her, like a docile 
and exhausted child, at the entire control of her companion, 
even as if she had been a mother. 

“ Do with me as you will, Edith, my sister.” 

There was really no argument, there were no reasons given, 
which could persuade any mind, having first, resolved on the one 
purpose, to abandon it for the other. How many reasons had 
Lucy for being firm in the first resolution she had made ! 

But the ends of wisdom do not depend upon the reasons which 
enforce conviction. Nay, conviction itself, where the heart is 
concerned, is rarely to be moved by any efforts, however noble, 
of the simply reasoning faculty. 

Shall we call them arts —the processes by which Edith 
Colleton had persuaded Lucy Munro to her purposes ? No ! it 
was the sweet nature, the gentle virtues, the loving tenderness, 
the warm sympathies, the delicate tact—these, superior to art 
and reason, were made evident to the suffering girl, in the long 
interview in which they were together; and her soul melted 
under their influence, and the stubborn will was subdued, and 
again she murmured lovingly — 

" Do with me as yo a will, my sister ” 


LAST SCENE OF ALL. 


487 


CHAPTER XLII. 

“ LAST SCENE OF ALL.” 

There was m little stir in the village of Chestatee on the 
morning following that on which the scene narrated in the pre¬ 
ceding chapter had taken place. It so happened that several 
of the worthy villagers had determined to remove upon that 
day; and Colonel Colleton and his family, consisting of his 
daughter, Lucy. Munro, and his future son-in-law, having now 
no further reason for delay, had also chosen it as their day of 
departure for Carolina. Nor did the already named constitute 
the sum total of the cavalcade setting out for that region. Car¬ 
olina was about to receive an accession in the person of the sa¬ 
gacious pedler, who, in a previous conversation with both Colo¬ 
nel Colleton and Ralph, had made arrangements for future and 
large adventures in the way of trade—having determined, with 
the advice and assistance of his newly-acquired friends, to estab¬ 
lish one of those wonders of various combinations, called a coun¬ 
try store, among the good people of Sumter district. Under 
their direction, and hopeful of the Colleton patronage and influ¬ 
ence, Bunce never troubled himself to dream of unprofitable 
speculations; but immediately drawing up letters for his brother 
and some other of his kinsmen engaged in the manufacture, 
in Connecticut, of one kind of notion or other, he detailed 
his new designs, and furnished liberal orders for the articles re¬ 
quired and deemed necessary for the wants of the free-handed 
backwoodsmen of the South. Lest our readers should lack any 
information on the subject of these wants, we shall narrate a 
brief dialogue between the younger Colleton and our worthy 
merchant, which took place but a few hours before their de 
parture: — 

“Well, Bunce, are you ready? We shall be off now in a 


488 


GUY RIVERS. 


couple of hours or so, and you must not keep us waiting. Pack 
up at once, man, and make yourself ready.” 

“ I guess you’re in a little bit of a small hurry, Master Colle¬ 
ton, ’cause, you see, you’ve some reason to he so. You hain’t 
had so easy a spell on it, no how, and I don’t wonder as how 
you’re no little airnest to get off. Well, you won’t have to wait 
for me. I’ve jest got through mending my little go-cart— 
though, to be sure, it don’t look, no how, like the thing it was. 
The rigilators made awful sad work of the box and body, and, 
what with patching and piecing, there’s no two eends on it alike.” 

“ Well, you’re ready, however, and we shall have no difficulty 
at the last hour ?” 

“ None to speak on. Jared Bunce aint the chap for burning 
daylight; and whenever you’re ready to say, ‘ Go,’ he’s gone. 
But, I say, Master Ralph, there’s one little matter I’d like to 
look at.” 

“ What’s that 1 Be quick, now, for I’ve much to see to.” 

“ Only a minute. Here, you see, is a letter I’ve jest writ to 
my brother, Ichabod Bunce, down to Meriden. He’s a ’cute 
chap, and quite a Yankee, now, I tell you; and as I knows all 
his ways, I’ve got to keep a sharp look-out to see he don’t come 
over me. Ah, Master Ralph, it’s a hard thing to say one’s own 
flesh and blood aint the thing, but the truth’s the truth to be 
sure, and, though it does hurt in the telling, that’s no reason it 
shouldn’t be told.” 

“ Certainly not!” 

“Well, as I say, Ichabod Bunce is as close and ’cute in his 
dealings as any man in all Connecticut, and that’s no little to 
say, I’m sartin. He’s got the trick, if anybody’s got it, of 
knowing how to make your pocket his, and squaring all things 
coming in by double multiplication. If he puts a shilling down, 
it’s sure to stick to another; and if he picks one up, it never 
comes by itself—there’s always sure to be two on ’em.” 

“ A choice faculty for a tradesman.” 

“ You’ve said it.” 

“Just the man for business, I take it.” 

“Jest so; you’re right there, Master Colleton — there’s no 
mistake about that. Well, as I tell’d you now, though he’s my 
own brother, I have to keep a raal sharp look out over him in 


LAST SCENE OF ALL. 


489 


all our dealings. If he says two and two makes four, I sets to 
calkilate, for when he says so, I’m sure there’s something wrong 
in the calkilation; and tho’ to be sure I do know, when the 
thing stands by itself, that two and two does make four; yet, 
somehow, whenever he says it, I begin to think it not altogether 
so sartain. Ah, he’s a main hand for trade, and there’s no 
knowing when he’ll come over you.” 

“ But, Bunce, without making morals a party to this question, 
as you are in copartnership with your brother, you should rather 
rejoice that he possesses so happy a faculty; it certainly should 
not be a matter of regret with you.” 

“Why, how—you wouldn’t have me to be a mean-spirited 
fellow, who would live all for money, and not care how it comes. 
I can’t, sir—’tain’t my way, I assure you. I do feel that I 
wasn’t born to live nowhere except in the South; and so I 
thought when I wrote Ichabod Bunce my last letter. I told 
him every man on his own hook, now—for* you see, I couldn’t 
stand his close-fisted contrivances no longer. He wanted me to 
work round the ring like himself, but I was quite too up-and- 
down for that, and so I squared off from him soon as I could. 
We never did agree when we were together, you see—’cause 
naterally, being brothers and partners, he couldn’t shave me 
as he shaved other folks, and so, ’cause he couldn’t by nature 
and partnership come ’cute over me, he was always grumbling, 
and for every yard of prints, he’d make out to send two yards 
of grunt and growls, and that was too much, you know, even 
for a pedler to stand; so we cut loose, and now as the people 
say on the river — every man paddle his own canoe.” 

“ And you are now alone in the way of trade, and this store 
which you are about to establish is entirely on your own ac¬ 
count 1” 

“ Guess it is; and so, you see, I must pull with single oar up 
stream, and shan’t quarrel with no friend that helps me now and 
then to* send the boat ahead.” 

“ Rely upon us, Bunce. You have done too much in my be¬ 
half to permit any of our family to forget your services. We 
shall do all that we can toward giving you a fair start in the 
stream, and it will not be often that you shall require a helping- 
hand in paddling your canoe.” 

21 * 


490 


GUY RIVERS. 


“I know’d it, Master Colleton. ’Tain’t in Carolina, ncr in 
Georgy, nor Yirginny, no—nor down in Alabam, that a man 
will look long for provisions, and see none come. That’s the 
people for me. I guess I must ha’ been born by nature in the 
South, though I did see daylight in Connecticut.” 

“No blarney, Bunce. We know you—what you are and 
what you are not!—good and bad in fair proportions. But 
what paper is that in your hand V 

“ Oh, that ? That’s jest what I was going now to ax you 
about. That’s my bill of particulars, you see, that I'm going 
to send on by the post, to Ichabod Bunce. He’ll trade with 
me, now we’re off partnership, and be as civil as a lawyer jest 
afore court-time. ’Cause, you see, he’ll be trying to come over 
me, and will throw as much dust in my eyes as he can. But I 
guess he don’t catch me with mouth ajar. I know his tricks, 
and he’ll find me up to them.” 

“ And what is it you require of me in this matter ?” 

“ Oh, nothing, but jest to look over this list, and tell me how 
you ’spose the things will suit your part of the country. You 
see I must try and lam how to please my customers, that is to 
be. Now, you see, here’s, in the first place—for they’re a 
great article now in the country, and turn out well in the way 
of sale—here’s—” 

But we need not report the catalogue. Enough, that he 
proceeded to unfold (dwelling with an emphatic and precise 
description of each article in turn) the immense inventory of 
wares and merchandises with which he was about to establish 
The assortment was various enough. There were pen-knives, 
and jack-knives, and clasp-knives, and dirk-knives, horn and 
wooden combs, calicoes and clocks, and tin-ware and garden 
seeds; everything, indeed, without regard to fitness of associa¬ 
tion, which it was possible to sell in the region to which he was 
going. 

Ralph heard him through his list with tolerable patience; 
but when the pedler, having given it a first reading, proposed a 
second, with passing comments on the prospects of sale of each 
separate article, by way of recapitulation, the youth could stand 
it no longer. Apologizing to the tradesman, therefore, in good 
set terms, he hurried away to the completion of those prepara- 


LAST SCENE OF ALL. 


491 


tions called for by his approaching departure. Bunce, having 
no auditor, was compelled to do the same; accordingly a few 
hours after, the entire party made its appearance in the court 
of the village-inn, where the carriages stood in waiting. 

About this time another party left the village, though in a 
different direction. It consisted of old Allen, his wife, and 
daughter Kate. In their company rode the lawyer Pippin, 
who, hopeless of elevation in his present whereabouts, was 
solicitous of a fairer field for the exhibition of his powers 
of law and logic than that which he now left had ever af¬ 
forded him. He made but a small item in the caravan. His 
goods and chattels required little compression for the pur¬ 
poses of carriage, and a small Jersey —a light wagon in free 
use in that section, contained all his wardrobe, books, papers, 
&e.—the heirlooms of a long and carefully economized practice. 
We may not follow his fortunes after his removal to the valley 
of the Mississippi. It does not belong to the narrative; but, 
we may surely say to those in whom his appearance may have 
provoked some interest, that subsequently he got into fine prac¬ 
tice— was notorious for his stump-speeches; and a random sheet 
of the “ Republican Star and Banner of Independence” which 
we now have before us, published in the town of “Modern 
Ilium,” under the head of the “ Triumph of Liberty and Prin¬ 
ciple,” records, in the most glowing language, the elevation of 
Peter Pippin, Esq., to the state legislature, by seven votes ma¬ 
jority over Colonel Hannibal Hopkins, the military candidate 
— Pippin 39, Hopkins 32. Such a fortunate result, if we have 
rightly estimated the character of the man, will have easily 
salved over all the hurts which, in his earlier history, his self- 
love may have suffered. 

But the hour of departure was at hand, and assisting the fair 
Edith into the carriage, Ralph had the satisfaction of placing 
her beside the sweetly sad, the lovely, but still deeply suffering 
girl, to whom he owed so much in the preservation of his life. 
She was silent when he spcke, but she looked her replies, and he 
felt that they were sufficiently expressive. The aunt had been 
easily persuaded to go with her niece, and we find her seated 
accordingly along with Colonel Colleton in the same carriage 
with the young ladies. Ralph rode, as his humor prompted. 


492 


GUY RIVERS. 


sometimes on horseback, and sometimes in a light gig — a prac¬ 
tice adopted with little difficulty, where a sufficient number of 
servants enabled him to transfer the trust of one or the other 
conveyance to the liveried outriders. Then came the compact, 
boxy, buggy, buttoned-up vehicle of our friend the pedler—a 
thing for which the unfertile character of our language, as yet, 
has failed to provide a fitting name—but which the backwoods¬ 
man of the west calls a go-cart; a title which the proprietor 
does not always esteem significant of its manifold virtues and 
accommodations. With a capacious stomach, it is wisely esti¬ 
mated for all possible purposes; and when opened with a mys¬ 
terious but highly becoming solemnity, before the gaping and 
wondering woodsman, how “ awful fine” do the contents appear 
to Miss Nancy and the little whiteheads about her. How grand 
are its treasures, of tape and toys, cottons and calicoes, yarn 
and buttons, spotted silks and hose—knives and thimbles— 
scissors and needles—wooden clocks, and coffee-mills, &c.— 
not to specify a closely-packed and various assortment of tin¬ 
ware and japan, from the tea-kettle and coffee-pot to the drink¬ 
ing mug for the pet boy and the shotted rattle for the infant. 
A judicious distribution of the two latter, in the way of pres¬ 
ents to the young, and the worthy pedler drives a fine bargain 
with the parents in more costly commodities. 

The party was now fairly ready, hut, just at the moment of 
departure, who should appear in sight but our simple friend, 
Chub Williams. He had never been a frequent visiter to the 
abodes of men, and of course all things occasioned wonder. 
He seemed fallen upon some strange planet, and was only won 
to attention by the travellers, on hearing the voice of Lucy 
Munro calling to him from the carriage window. He could not 
be made to understand the meaning of her words when she 
told him where she was going, but contented himself with say¬ 
ing he would come for her, as soon as they built up his house, 
and she should be his mother. It was for this purpose he had 
come to the village, from which, though surprised at all things 
he saw,he was anxious to get away. He had been promised, as 
we remember, the rebuilding of his cabin, by the men whc 
captured Rivers; together with sundry other little acquisitions, 
which, as they were associated with his animal wants, the mem- 


LAST SCENE OF ALL. 


493 


ory of the urchin did not suffer to escape him. Ralph placed 
in his hands a sum of money, trifling in itself, hut larger in 
amount than Chub had ever seen at any one time before; and 
telling him it was his own, rejoined the party which had already 
driven off. The pedler still lingered, until a bend in the road 
put his company out of sight; when, driving up to the idiot, 
who stood with open mouth wondering at his own wealth, he 
opened upon him the preliminaries of trade, with a respectful 
address, duly proportioned to the increased finances of the boy. 

“ I say, now, Chub—seeing you have the raal grit, if it ain’t 
axing too much, what do you think to do with all that money ? 
I guess you’d like to lay out a little on’t in the way of trade; 
and as I ain’t particular where I sell, why, the sooner I begin, 
I guess, the better. You ain’t in want of nothing, eh ? No 
knife to cut the saplings, and pare the nails, nor nothing of no 
kind? Now I has everything from—” 

Bunce threw up the lid of his box, and began to display his 
wares. 

“There’s a knife for you, Chub Williams—only two bits. 
With that knife you could open the stone walls of any house, 
even twice as strong as Guy Rivers’s. And there’s a handker¬ 
chief for your neck, Chub — Guy’ll have to wear one of rope, 
my lad: and look at the suspenders, Chub — fit for the king; 
and—” 

Where the pedler would have stopped, short of the display and 
enumeration of all the wares in his wagon, it is not easy to say, 
but for an unexpected interruption. One of the outsiders of 
the Colleton party, galloped back at this moment, no other in¬ 
deed, than our former acquaintance, the blacky, Caesar, the fel¬ 
low whose friendship for Ralph was such that he was reluctant 
to get him the steed upon which he left his uncle’s house in 
dudgeon. Ralph had sent him back to see what detained the 
pedler, and to give him help in case of accident. 

Caesar at once divined the cause of the pedler’s delay, as he 
saw the box opened, and its gaudy contents displayed before 
the eyes of the wondering idiot. He was indignant. The 
negro of the South has as little reverence for the Yankee ped¬ 
ler as his master, and Osesar was not slow to express the indig- 
uation which he felt. 


GUY RIVERS. 


4i>4 

“ Ki! Misser Bunce, aint you shame for try for draw de 
money out ob the boy pocket, wha’ massa gee um ?” 

“ Why, Caesar, he kaint eat the money, old fellow, and he 
kaint wear it; and he’ll have to buy something with it, when¬ 
ever he wants to use it.” 

“ But gee um time, Misser Bunce—gee um time ! De mon¬ 
ey aint fair git warm in de young man pocket. Gee um time ! 
Le’ um look ’bout um, and see wha’ he want; and ef you wants 
to be friendly wid um, gee um somet’ing youse’f—dat knife 
burn bright in he eye! Gee um dat, and le’s be moving! 
Maussa da wait! Ef you’s a coming for trade in we country, 
you mus’ drop de little bizness — ’taint ’spectable in Car’lina.” 

The pedler was rebuked. He looked first at Csesar, then at 
Chub, and finally handed the boy the knife. 

“ You’re right. There, Chub, there’s a knife for you. You’re 
a good little fellow, as Avell as you knows how to be.” 

Chub grinned, took the knife, opened both blades, and nod¬ 
ding his head, made off without a word. 

“ The etarnal little heathen ! Never to say so much as 
thank ye.” 

“ Nebber mind, Misser Bunce; dat’s de ’spectable t’ing wha’ 
you do. Always ’member, ef you wants to be gempleman’s, 
dat you kaint take no money from nigger and poor buckrah. 
You kin gib um wha’ you please, but you mustn’t ’speck dem 
to be gibbing you.” 

“ But in the way of trade, Csesar,” said the pedler, putting 
his horse in motion. 

“ Der’s a time for trade, and a time for gib, and you must do 
de genteel t’ing, and nebber consider wha’s de ’spense of it, or 
de profit. De nigger hab he task in de cornfiel’, and he hab 
for do um; but ’spose maussa wants he nigger to do somet’ing 
dat aint in he task—dat’s to say in de nigger own time—wha’ 
den ? He pays um lian’some for ii. When you’s a trading, 
trade and git you pay, but when you’s a trabelling with gem- 
piemans and he family, da’s no time for trade. Ef you open 
you box at dem times, you must jest put in you hand, and take 
out de t’ing wha’ you hab for gib, and say, 4 Yer Csesar—some¬ 
t’ing for you, boy!”’ 

“Hem! that’s the how, is it?” said the pedler with a leer 


LAST SCENE OP ALL. 


495 


that was good-humoredly knowing. “Well, old fellow, as you’ve 
given me quite a lesson how to behave myself, I guess I must 
show you that I understand how to prove that I’m thankful— 
so here, Caesar, is a cut for you from one of my best goods.” 

He accompanied the words with a smart stroke of his whip, 
a totally unexpected salutation, over the shoulders, which set 
the negro off in a canter. Bunce, however, called him back, 
holding up a flaming handkerchief of red and orange, as a 
means of reconciliation. Caesar was soon pacified, and the two 
rode on together in a pleasant companionship, which suffered 
no interruptions on the road; Caesar all the way continuing to 
give the pedler a proper idea of the processes through which 
he might become a respectable person in Carolina. 

There are still other parties to our story which it is required 
that we should dispose of according to the rules of the novel. 

Let us return to the dungeon of the outlaw, where we behold 
him in a situation as proper to his deserts as it is new to his 
experience. Hitherto, he has gone free of all human bonds 
and penalties, save that of exile from society, and a life of con¬ 
tinued insecurity. He has never prepared his mind with res¬ 
ignation to endure patiently such a condition. What an intel¬ 
lect was here allowed to go to waste—what fine talents have 
been perverted in this man. Endowments that might have done 
the country honor, have been made to minister only in its mis¬ 
chiefs. 

How sad a subject for contemplation ! The wreck of intel¬ 
lect, of genius, of humanity. Fortunate for mankind, if, under 
the decree of a saving and blessing Providence, there be no 
dark void on earth—when one bright star falls from its sphere, 
if there is another soon lighted to fill its place, and to shine 
more purely than that which has been lost. May we not be¬ 
lieve this—nay, we must, and exult, on behalf of humanity— 
that, in the eternal progress of change, the nature which is its 
aliment no less than its element, restores not less than its desti¬ 
ny removes. Yet, the knowledge that we lose not, does not 
materially lessen the pang when we behold the mighty fall— 
when we see the great mind, which, as a star, we have almost 
worshipped, shooting with headlong precipitance through the 
immense void from its place of eminence, and defrauding the 


496 


GUY UIVERS. 


eye of all the glorious presence and golden promise which had 
become associated with its survey. 

The intellect of Guy Rivers had been gigantic—the mistake 
—a mistake quite too common to society—consisted in an ed¬ 
ucation limited entirely to the mind, and entirely neglectful of 
the morale of the boy. He was taught, like thousands of others; 
and the standards set up for his moral government, for his pas¬ 
sions, for his emotions, were all false from the first. The ca¬ 
pacities of his mind were good as well as great—but they had 
been restrained, while the passions had all been brought into 
active, and at length ungovernable exercise. How was it possi¬ 
ble that reason, thus taught to be subordinate, could hold the 
strife long, when passion—fierce passion the passion of the 
querulous infant, and the peevish boy, only to be bribed to its 
duty by the toy and the sugarplum—is its uncompromising an¬ 
tagonist 1 

But let us visit him in his dungeon—the dungeon so lately 
the abode of his originally destined, but now happily safe vic¬ 
tim. What philosophy is there to support him in his reverse 
—what consolation of faith, or of reflection, the natural result 
of the due performance of human duties ? none! Every thought 
was self-reproachful. Every feeling was of self-rebuke and 
mortification. Every dream was a haunting one of terror, 
merged for ever in the deep midnight cry of a fateful voice 
which bade him despair. “Curse God and die!” 

In respect to his human fortunes, the voice was utterly with¬ 
out pity. He had summed up for himself, as calmly as possi¬ 
ble, all his chances of escape. There was no hope left him. 
No sunlight, human or divine, penetrated the crevices of his 
dungeon, as in the case of Ralph Colleton, cheering him with 
promise, and lifting his soul with faith and resignation. Strong 
and self-relying as was his mind by nature, he yet lacked all 
that strength of soul which had sustained Ralph even when 
there seemed no possible escape from the danger which threat¬ 
ened his life. But Guy Rivers was not capable of receiving 
light or warmth from the simple aspects of nature. His soul, 
indurated by crime, was as insusceptible to the soothing influence 
of such aspects, as the cold rocky cavern where he had harbor¬ 
ed, was impenetrable to the noonday blaze. The sun-glance 


497 


LAST SCENE OP ALL. 

through the barred lattice, suddenly stealing, like a friendly 
messenger, with a sweet and mellow smile upon his lips, was 
hailed as an angelic visiter, by the enthusiastic nature of the 
one, without guile in his own heart. Rivers would have re¬ 
garded such a visiter as an intruder; the smile in his eyes 
would have been a sneer, and he would have turned away from 
it in disgust. The mind of the strong man is the medium through 
which the eyes see, and from which life takes all its color. The 
heart is the prismatic conductor, through which the affections 
show; and that which is seared, or steeled, or ossified—per¬ 
verted utterly from its original make—can exhibit no rainbows 
—no arches of a sweet promise, linking the gloomy earth with 
the bright and the beautiful and the eternal heavens. 

The mind of Guy Rivers had been one of the strongest make 
— one of large and leading tendencies. He could not have been 
one of the mere ciphers of society. He must be something, or 
he must perish. His spirit would have fed upon his heart other¬ 
wise, and, wanting a field and due employment, his frame must 
have worn away in the morbid repinings of its governing prin¬ 
ciples. Unhappily, he had not been permitted a choice. The 
education of his youth had given a fatal direction to his man¬ 
hood ; and we find him, accordingly, not satisfied with his pur¬ 
suit, yet resolutely inflexible and undeviating in the pursuit of 
error. Such are the contradictions of the strong mind, to which, 
wondering as we gaze, with unreasonable and unthinking aston¬ 
ishment, we daily see it subject. Our philosophers are content 
with declaiming upon effects—they will not permit themselves 
or others to trace them up to their causes. To heal the wound, 
the physician may probe and find out its depth and extent; 
the same privilege is not often conceded to the physician of the 
mind or of the morals, else numberless diseases, now seemingly 
incurable, had been long since brought within the healing scope 
of philosophical analysis. The popular cant would have us for¬ 
bear even to look at the history of the criminal. Hang the wretch, 
SAy they, but say nothing about him. Why trace his progress 1 
—what good can come out of the knowledge of those influences 
and tendencies, which have made him a criminal ? Let them 
Answer the question for themselves! 

The outlaw beheld the departing cavalcade of the Colletons, 


498 


GUY RIVERS, 


from the grated window. He saw the last of all those in whose 
fortunes he might be supposed to have an interest. He turned 
from the sight with a bitter pang at his heart, and, to his sur¬ 
prise, discovered that he was not alone in the solitude of his 
prison. One ministering spirit sat beside him upon the long 
bench, the only article of furniture afforded to his dungeon. 

The reader has not forgotten the young woman to whose re¬ 
lief, from fire, Ralph Colleton so opportunely came while ma¬ 
king his escape from his pursuers. We remember the resigna¬ 
tion—the yielding weakness of her broken spirit to the will of 
her destroyer. We have seen her left desolate by the death of 
her only relative, and only not utterly discarded by him, to whose 
fatal influence over her heart, at an earlier period, we may as¬ 
cribe all her desolation. She then yielded without a struggle 
to his will, and, having prepared her a new abiding-place, he 
had not seen her after, until, unannounced and utterly unlooked- 
for, certainly uninvited, she appeared before him in the cell of 
his dungeon. 

Certainly, none are utterly forgotten! There are some who 
remember—some who feel with the sufferer, however lowly in 
his suffering—some who can not forget. No one perishes with¬ 
out a tearful memory becoming active when informed of his fate; 
and, though the world scorns and despises, some one heart keeps 
a warm sympathy, that gives a sigh over the ruin of a soul, and 
perhaps plants a flower upon its grave. 

Rivers had not surely looked to see, in his dungeon, the for¬ 
saken and the defrauded girl, for whom he had shown so little 
love. He knew not, at first, how to receive her. What offices 
could she do for him—what influence exercise—how lighten 
the burden of his doom—how release him from his chains? 
Nothing of this could she perform—and what did she there? 
For sympathy, at such a moment, he cared little—for such 
sympathy, at least, as he could command. His pride and am¬ 
bition, heretofore, had led him to despise and undervalue the 
easy of attainment. He was always grasping after the impos¬ 
sible. The fame which he had lost for ever, grew doubly at¬ 
tractive to his mind’s eye from the knowledge of this fact. The 
society, which had expelled him from its circle and its privileges, 
was an Eden in his imagination, simply on that account. The 


LAST SCENE OF ALL. 


499 


love of Edith Colleton grew more desirable from her scorn; — 
and the defeat of hopes so daring, made his fierce spirit writhe 
within him, in all the pangs of disappointment, only neutralized 
by his hope of revenge. And that hope was now gone; the 
dungeon and the doom were all that met his eyes; — and what 
had she, his victim, to do in his prison-cell, and with his prison 
feelings — she whom Providence, even in her own despite, was 
now about to avenge? No wonder he turned away from her in 
the bitterness of the thought which her appearance must neces¬ 
sarily have inspired. 

“ Turn not away! — speak to me, Guy—speak to me, if you 
have pity in your soul! You shall not drive me from you— 
you shall not dismiss me now. I should have obeyed you at 
another time, though you had sent me to my death—but I can 
not obey you now. I am strong now, strong—very strong since 
I can say so much. I am come to be with you to the last, and, 
if it be possible, to die with you; and you shall not refuse me. 
You shall not—oh, you will not—you can not—” 

And, as she spoke, she clung to him as one pleading herself 
for life to the unrelenting executioner. He replied, in a sar¬ 
casm, true to his general course of life. 

“ Yes, Ellen! your revenge for your wrongs would not be 
well complete, unless your own eyes witnessed it; and you in¬ 
sist upon the privilege as if you duly estimated the luxury. 
Well!—you may stay. It needed but this, if anything had 
been needed, to show me my own impotence. 

“ Cruel to the last, Guy—cruel to the last! Surely the few 
hours between this and that of death, are too precious to be em¬ 
ployed in bitterness. Were not prayer better—if you will not 
pray, Guy, let me. My prayer shall be for you; and, in the 
forgiveness which my heart shall truly send to my lips for the 
wrongs you have done to me and mine, I shall not altogether 
despair, so that you join with me, of winning a forgiveness far 
more important and precious! Guy, will you join me in 
prayer V* 

“My knees are stiff, Ellen. I have not been taught to 
kneel.” 

“ But it is not too late to learn. Bend, bow with me, Guy— 
if you have ever loved the poor Ellen, bow with her now. It i* 


500 


GUY RIVERS. 


her prayer; and, oh, think, how weak is the vanity of this pride 
in a situation like yours. How idle the stern and stubborn spirit, 
when men can place you in bonds—when men can take away 
life and name — whe \ men can hoot and hiss and defile your 
fettered and cnfeeblet person ! It was for a season and a trial 
like this, Guy, that humility was given us. It was in order to 
such an example that the Savior died for us.” 

“ He died not for me. I have gained nothing by his death. 
Hen are as had as ever, and wrong—the wrong which deprived 
me of my right in society—has been as active and prevailing a 
principle of human action as before he died. It is in his name 
now that they do the wrong, and in his name, since his death, 
they have contrived to find a sanction for all manner of crime. 
Speak no more of this, Ellen j you know nothing about it. It 
is all folly.” 

“ To you, Guy, it m&y be. To the wise all things are fool¬ 
ish. But to the humble heart there is a truth, even in what are 
thought follies, which brings us the best of teachings. That is 
no folly which keeps down, in the even posture of humility, the 
spirit which circumstances would only hind and crush in every 
effort to rise. That is no folly which prepares us for reverses, 
and fortifies us against change and vicissitude. That is no fol¬ 
ly which takes away the sting from affliction—which has kept 
me, Guy, as once before you said, from driving a knife into your 
heart, while it lay beating against the one to which yours had 
brought all manner of affliction. Oh, believe me, the faith and 
the feeling and the hope, not less than the fear, which has made 
me what I am now — which has taught me to rely only on the 
one—which has made me independent of all things and all 
loves — ay, even of yours, when I refer to it—is no idle folly. 
It is the only medicine by which the soul may live. It is that 
which I bring to you now. Hear me, then—Guy, hear the 
prayer of the poor Ellen, who surely ha6 some right to be heard 
by you. Kneel for me, and with me, on this dungeon floor, and 
pray—only pray.” 

“And what should I pray for, and what should I say—and 
whom should I curse V* 

“ Oh, curse none! — say anything you please, so that it have 
the form of a prayer. Say, though but a single sentence, but 
say it in the spirit which is right.” 


LAST SCENE OF ALL. 


501 


“ Say what V' 

“Say—‘the Lord’s will be done,’ if nothing more; but say 
it in the true feeling—the feeling of humble reliance upon God.” 

“ And wherefore say this ? His will must be done, and will be 
done, whether I say it or not. This is all idle—very idle— 
and to my mind excessively ridiculous, Ellen.” 

“ Not so, Guy, as your own sense will inform you. True, his 
will must be done; but there is a vast difference between de¬ 
siring that it be done, and in endeavoring to resist its doing. 
It is one thing to pray that his will have its way without stop, 
but quite another to have a vain wish in one’s heart to arrest its 
progress. But I am a poor scholar, and have no words to prove 
this to your mind, if you are not willing to think upon the sub¬ 
ject. If the danger is not great enough in your thought—if 
the happiness of that hope of immortality be not sufficiently im¬ 
pressive to you—how can I make it seem different] The 
great misfortune of the learned and the wise is, that they will 
not regard the necessity. If they did—if they could be less 
self-confident—how much more readily Avmuld all these lights 
from God shine out to them, than to us who want the far sense 
so quickly to perceive and to trace them out in the thick dark¬ 
ness. But it is my prayer, Guy, that you kneel with me in 
prayer; that you implore the feeling of preparedness for all 
chances which can only come from Heaven. Do this for me, 
Guy — Guy, my beloved—the destroyer of my youth, of all 
my hope, and of all of mine, making me the poor destitute and 
outcast that you find mo now—do this one, one small kindness 
for the poor Ellen you have so much wronged, and she forgives 
you all. I have no other prayer than this—I have no other 
wish in life.” 

As she spoke, she threw herself before him, and clasped his 
knees firmly with her hands. He lifted her gently from the 
floor, and for a few moments maintained her in silence in his 
arms. At length, releasing her from his grasp, and placing her 
upon the bench, on which, until that moment, he had continued 
to sit, he replied : — 

“ The prayer is small—very small, Ellen—which you make, 
and I know no good reason why I should not grant it. I have 
been to you all that you describe me. You have called mo 


502 


GUY RIVERS. 


truly your destroyer, and the forgiveness you promige in return 
for this prayer is desirable even to one so callous as myself. I 
will do as you require.” 

“Oh, will you? then I shall be so happy!—” was her ex¬ 
clamation of rejoicing. He replied gravely — 

“We shall see. I will, Ellen, do as you require, but you 
must turn away your eyes — go to the window and look out. 
I would not be seen in such a position, nor while uttering such 
a prayer.” 

“ Oh, be not ashamed, Guy Rivers. Give over that false senti¬ 
ment of pride which is now a weakness. Be the man, the—” 

“ Be content, Ellen, with my terms. Either as I please, or 
not at all. Go to the window.” 

She did as he directed, and a few moments had elapsed only 
when he called her to him. He had resumed his seat upon the 
bench, and his features were singularly composed and quiet. 

“ I have done something more than you required, Ellen, for 
which you will also have to forgive me. Give me your hand, 
now.” 

She did so, and he placed it upon his bosom, which was now 
streaming with his blood ! He had taken the momentary opportu¬ 
nity afforded him by her absence at the window to stab himself 
to the heart with a penknife which he had contrived to conceal 
upon his person. Horror-struck, the affrighted woman would 
have called out for assistance, but, seizing her by the wrist, he 
sternly stayed her speech and action. 

“Not for your life, Ellen—not for your life! It is all use¬ 
less. I first carefully felt for the beatings of my heart, and then 
struck where they were strongest. The stream flows now which 
will soon cease to flow, and but one thing can stop it.” 

“ Oh, what is that, Guy ?—let me—” 

“Death—which is at hand! Now, Ellen, do you forgive 
me ? I ask no forgiveness from others.” 

“ From my heart I do, believe me.” 

“ It is well. I am weak. Let me place my head upon your 
bosom. It is some time, Ellen, since it has been there. How 
wildly does it struggle! Pray, Ellen, that it beat not long. It 
has a sad office! Now—lips — give me your lips, Ellen. You 
have forgiven me - all — everything V* 


LAST SCENE OF ALL. 


508 


“All, all!” 

“ It grows dark—but I care not. Yet, throw open the win* 
dow — I will not rest—I will pursue! He shall not escape me ! 
— Edith—Edith!” He was silent, and sunk away from her 
embrace upon the floor. In the last moment his mind had wan¬ 
dered to the scene in which, but an hour before, he had wit¬ 
nessed the departure of Edith with his rival, Colleton. 

The jailer, alarmed by the first fearful cry of Ellen succeed¬ 
ing this event, rushed with his assistants into the cell, but too 
late. The spirit had departed; and they found but the now 
silent mourner, with folded arms, and a countenance that had 
in it volumes cf unutterable wo, bending over the inanimate 
form of one wlnse life and misnamed love had been the bane 
of hers. 


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RICHARD HURDIS 


A 


TALE OF ALABAMA 


By W. GILMORE SIMMS, Esq. 

*1 

4UTlI0n. or ‘‘THE yemasske”— “the partisan”— “ mellichampe” — 
“Katharine walton”—“the scout”—“woodcraft “ etc 


“ I will recall 

Some facta of ancient date. He most remember 
When, on Citheron, we together fed 
Our several flocks.” 

Sophoc. CEdip. Tyran. 


NEW AND REVISED EDITION 



A. C. ARMSTRONG & SON, 

714 BROADWAY. 

1882. 





I 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, 

• By J. 8. REDFIELD, 

1b the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in act! for the Southern 

District of New York. 





ADVERTISEMENT 


It might be of some use to such of our young authors as ara 
just about to begin their career in letters, were I to state the 
reasons which governed me, some eighteen years ago, in giving 
this story, with several others of the same family, to the public, 
anonymously. But I am not prepared, just yet, to enter the 
confessional. The matter is of a sort to keep. I treasure up 
much curious literary history, the fruit of a protracted experi¬ 
ence, in reserve for a day and volume of greater leisure and 
deliberation. Enough now, to say that I had my interest — 
ay, and my fun too—in the mystery with which the publica¬ 
tion of the work was originally clothed; and, if I had one coun¬ 
sel, over all, to impart to the young beginner, it should be to 
cling to the anonymous in literature as long as it will afford 
him a decent cover. Were I now, for the first time, beginning 
my own career, with the possession of the smallest part of my 
present experience, my left hand should never know what my 
right is doing. I should not only keep the public in ignorance 
of my peculiar labors, but I should, quite as religiously, keep 
the secret from my friends and associates. This is especially 
necessary, if you would be safe; if you would have anything 
like fair play; if you would escape from a thousand impertb 



8 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


nonces; if you would hope for any honest judgments. There 
are very few friends, indeed, to whom you can trust any of 
your secrets; and this of authorship, is one, which, of all 
others, is least easy to keep. Your friend is vain on your 
account—or on his own—which is much the most likely — and 
must blab, with even slighter precautions than were taken 
by the barber of King Midas. Even he honestly keeps 
your secret, what is the profit to you in letting it out of your 
own hands ? You must employ an agent in finding your way 
to the press, but this need not be one of those whom you rank 
among your friends. A business transaction may be kept se¬ 
cret ; but a confidence, gratuitously given, is rarely safe. If 
you reveal a secret, unless from the necessity of the case, you 
may reasonably be supposed to desire its farther circulation. 
So friends mostly understand it.—And, do not deceive your¬ 
self with the notion, that, by confiding to the persons nearest 
to you, and who most share your sympathies, you can possibly 
derive any advantage from it. They can seldom serve you in 
any way. They can give no help to a reputation which is to 
be founded on your own real merits; no counsel, of any value 
in an art which they themselves do not profess, but which they 
are still very prone to teach; exercise no influence which is 
not apt, in some way, to prove pernicious; and, whether they 
praise or blame, are generally the worst judges to whom you 
could submit your productions. Go to your cook in preference. 
Your friends always find your own personality conflicting, in 
their minds, with your productions. They never separate you 
from your writings. Their personal and local associations per¬ 
petually start up to baffle the free influence of yc u* works upon 
their thoughts and hearts; and they weigh your opinions, or 
your imaginations, or your designs and inventions, with a con¬ 
tinual reference to yourself, as you appear in ordinary society. 
In society, you are perhaps nothing; silent as Gibbon—without 
any of the small change of conversation—that clinking currency 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


9 


which best passes among ordinary people, and which need not 
^e true coin, at all—though you may be able to draw for a thou 
sand pounds . and you thus socially appear at great disadvan¬ 
tage with the very persons to whom you confide your secret 
and trustingly declare your labors. What can be the result 1 
Your friend, who has known you only in social relations, is re¬ 
quired to feel surprise at your performances, or to speak very 
qualifiedly of their merits. He is reduced to this alternative.— 
If he admits himself to be surprised, it is equivalent to confes¬ 
sing that he has not had the capacity to discover your peculiai 
endowment. His self-esteem will oppose any such admission, 
and he disparages it accordingly. “ He has always known 
that you had a certain talent—“but—it was surely a little 
too bold of you to undertake a book!” And this will be 
thought and said without any wilful desire to harm; simply 
from what seems necessary to self-respect and the maintenance 
of old position and the old social relations. And, do you not 
see, that, if you continue presumptuously to write books, it is 
possible—barely possible—that you will outgrow your circle? 
Every chatty, conceited, “talking potato” of it, is personally 
interested in preventing such a growth. The instincts of medi¬ 
ocrity are always on the watch and easily alarmed; and it 
perpetually toils to keep down any growth which is calculated 
to fling a shadow over itself. And this is all very natural— 
not to be complained of, or quarrelled with. The safest way 
to avoid any of these perils, and much annoyance, is to keep 
your secret, and let your book find its way alone. Let the 
book win the reputation before you claim the authorship. 

Of all this, something hereafter. My own humble experi¬ 
ence in authorship, of some twenty-five years growth, will some 
day furnish ample materials for a volume of literary anecdote, 
which, I promise the reader, will not be found less valuable for 
its lessons, because so well calculated to provoke frequent mer¬ 
riment. I shall make the attempt, in more elaborate pages, to 

1 * 


10 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


indicate the true reasons which serve to keep the masses of 
mankind from any direct intercourse with their authors : — show 
why society, itself, works to this very end, as if moved by a 
common necessity, and governed by a positively selfish interest 

“ Richard Hurdis” was singularly successful with the public 
in spite of much hostile criticism. It was objected, to the story, 
that it was of too gloomy and savage a character. But the en¬ 
tire aspect of a sparsely-settled forest, or mountain country, is 
grave and saddening, even where society is stationary and 
consistent; and, where society is only in process of formation 
the saddening and the grave in its aspect are but too apt to 
take on even sterner features, and to grow into the gloomy 
and ferocious. It is quite enough, in answer to the objection, 
to say that the general portraiture is not only a truthful one, 
in the present case, but that the materials are really of histor¬ 
ical character. The story is a genuine chronicle of the border 
region where the scene is laid, and of the period when the date 
is fixed. Its action, throughout, is founded on well-known facts. 
Its personages were real, living men; being, doing, and suffer¬ 
ing, as here reported. Nothing has been “ extenuate,” nothing 
has been “ set down in malice.” A softer coloring might have 
been employed, and, more frequently, scenes of repose might 
have been introduced for relieving the intense and fierce 
aspects of the story; but these would have been out of place 
in a narrative so dramatic of cast, and where the action is so 
rapid. 

Some doubts have been expressed touching the actual exis¬ 
tence of the wild and savage confederacy which I have here 
described; but nobody, at all familiar with the region and pe¬ 
riod of the story, can possibly entertain a question of the his¬ 
tory. There are hundreds of persons, now living, who knew, 
and well remember, all the parties; and the general history of 
the outlawry prevailing in the Mississippi valley, twenty years 
ago, can hardly have escaped the knowledge, in some degree, 


ADVERTISEMENT. - 11 

of every inhabitant of the southwest, during that period. I 
knew Stuart, the captor of Murrell, personally; and had seve- 
eral conferences with him, prior to the publication of his nar¬ 
rative. I have also met certain of the dramatis personas , during 
my early wanderings in that then wild country. The crimes 
here recorded, were then actually in progress of commission; 
and some of my scenes, and several of my persons, were 
sketched from personal observation, and after the current re¬ 
ports from the best local authorities. I repeat, briefly, that 
the facts here employed are beyond question, and still within 
the memory of living men. I need scarcely add, that, as a 
matter of course, I have exercised the artist’s privilege of pla¬ 
cing my groups, in action, at my own pleasure; using what 
accessories I thought proper, and dismissing others; suppress¬ 
ing the merely loathsome; bringing out the heroic, the bold 
and attractive, into becoming prominence, for dramatic effect; 
and, filling out the character, more or less elaborately, accord¬ 
ing to the particular requisitions of the story, without regarding 
the individual claims of the subordinate. Let me say, further, 
— though this, perhaps, is scarcely necessary—that, in most 
cases, I have used other than the true names, and altered cer¬ 
tain localities, simply that living and innocent affections should 
not be unnecessarily outraged. 

One other matter. It will be seen that there is a peculiarity 
in the arrangement of the story. The hero tells, not only what 
he himself performed, but supplies the events, even as they 
occur, which he yet derives from the report of others. Though 
quite unusual, the plan is yet strictly within the proprieties of 
art. The reader can readily be made to comprehend that the 
hero writes after a lapse of time, in which he had supplied 
himself with the necessary details, filling up the gaps in his 
own experience. I have persuaded myself that something is 
gained by such a progress, in the more energetic, direct and 
dramatic character of the story; and the rapidity of the action 


12 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


is a necessary result, from the exclusion of all circuitous narra¬ 
tion. The hero and author, under the plan, become identi¬ 
cal;—-a union which the reader will be pleased to believe 
only fictitious: while the real writer was unknown, it was 
of little consequence whether the parties were confounded or 
not. Even now, the disclaimer is hardly necessary; since 
nobody need be mystified in the matter, unless it be some invet¬ 
erate Dogberry, who prides himself on the length of his 
ears, and insists upon the whole road in his daily crossing of 
the Pons Asinorum. 

There are two other stories—“Border Beagles,” and “Beau- 
champe,”—which belonged originally to this unnamed family. 
These will succeed to “ Richard Hurdis,” in the present class¬ 
ification of my writings. 

The Author. 

Woodlands, S. C. 

March 1 1855, 


RICHARD HDRDIS. 

_ 


CHAPTER I. 

A TRUANT DISPOSITION. 

* # Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook, 

And all that Greece and Italy have sung 
Of swains reposing myrtle graves among 1 
Ours couch on naked rocks, will cross a brook, 

Swollen with chill rains, nor ever cast a look 
This way or that, or give it even a thought 
More than by smoothest pathway may be brought 
Into a vacant mind. Can written book 
Teach what they learn?”— Wordsworth. 

[)f the hardihood of the American character there can be no 
.loubts, however many there may exist on the subject of our 
good manners. We ourselves seem to be sufficiently conscious 
of our security on the former head, as we forbear insisting upon 
it; about the latter, however, we are sore and touchy enough. 
We never trouble ourselves to prove that we are sufficiently 
able and willing, when occasion serves, to do battle, tooth and 
nail, for our liberties and possessions; our very existence, as a 
people, proves this ability and readiness. But let John Bull 
prate of our manners, and how we fume and fret, and what 
fierce action and wasteful indignation we expend upon him! 
We are sure to have the last word in all such controversies. 

Our hardihood comes from our necessities, and prompts our 
enterprise; and the American is bold in adventure to a prov¬ 
erb Where the silk-shodden and sleek citizen of the European 




14 


RICHARD HURDI8. 


world would pause and deliberate to explore our wilds, we plunge 
incontinently forward ; and the forest falls before our axe, and 
the desert blooms under the providence of our cultivator, as if 
the wand of an enchanter had waved over them with the rising 
of a sudden moonlight. Yankee necessities, and southern and 
western curiosity, will probe to the very core of the dusky 
woods, and palsy, by the exhibition of superior powers, the very 
souls of their old possessors. 

I was true to the temper and the nature of my countrymen. 
The place in which I was born could not keep me always. 
With manhood—ay, long before I was a man—came the de¬ 
sire to range. My thoughts craved freedom, my dreams prompt¬ 
ed the same desire, and the wandering spirit of our people, per¬ 
petually stimulated by the continual opening of new regions 
and more promising abodes, was working in my heart with all 
the volume of a volcano. Manhood came, and I burst my 
shackles. I resolved upon the enjoyment for which I had 
dreamed and prayed. I had no fears, for I was stout of limb, 
bold of heart, prompt in the use of my weapon, a fearless rider, 
and a fatal shot. Here are the inevitable possessions of the 
southern and western man, from Virginia to the gulf, and back¬ 
ward to the Ohio. I had these, with little other heritage, from 
my Alabama origin, and I was resolved to make the most of 
them as soon as I could. You may be sure I lost no time in 
putting my resolves into execution. Our grain-crops in Ma¬ 
rengo were ripe in August, and my heart bounded with the un¬ 
folding of the sheaves. I was out of my minority in the same 
fortunate season. 

I waited for the coming October only. I felt that my pa¬ 
rents had now no claims upon me. The customs of our society, 
the necessities of our modes of life, the excursive and adventur¬ 
ous habits of our people, all justified a desire, which, in a sta¬ 
tionary community, would seem so adverse to the nicer designs 
of humanity. But the life in the city has very few standards 
in common with that of the wilderness. We acknowledge few, 
at least. The impulses of the latter, to our minds, are worth 
any day all the mercantile wealth of the former; and that we 
are sincere in this opinion may be fairly inferred from the pref¬ 
erence which the forester will always show for the one over the 


A TRUANT DISPOSITION. 


li 


other region. Gain is no consideration for those who live in ev- 
ery muscle, and who find enjoyment from the exercise of every 
limb. The man who lives by measuring tape and pins by the 
sixpence worth, may make money by his vocation—but, God 
help him ! he is scarce a man. His veins expand not with gen¬ 
erous ardor; his muscles wither and vanish, as they are unem¬ 
ployed ; and liis soul — it has no emotions which prompt him to 
noble restlessness, and high and generous exertion. Let him 
keep at his vocation if he will, but he might, morally and physi¬ 
cally, do far better if he would. 

My resolves were soon known to all around me. They are 
not yet known to the reader. Well, they are quickly told. 
The freed youth at twenty-one, for the first time freed, and im¬ 
patient only for the exercise of his freedom, has but few pur¬ 
poses, and his plans are usually single and unsophisticated 
enough. Remember, I am speaking for the forester and farmer, 
not for the city youth who is taught the arts of trade from 
the cradle up, and learns to scheme and connive while yet he 
clips the coral in his boneless gums. I was literally going 
abroad, after the fashion of the poorer youth of our neighbor¬ 
hood, to seek my fortune. As yet, I had but little of my own. 
A fine horse, a few hundred dollars in specie, three able-bodiecl 
negroes, a good rifle, which carried eighty to the pound, and 
was the admiration of many who were even better shots than 
myself—these made pretty much the sum total of my earthly 
possessions. But I thought not much of this matter. To ram¬ 
ble a while, at least until my money was all gone, and then to 
take service on shares with some planter who had land and 
needed the help of one like myself, was all my secret. I had 
heard of the Chickasaw Bluffs, and of the still more recent Choc¬ 
taw purchase—at that time a land of promise only, as its ac¬ 
quisition had not been effected — and I was desirous of looking 
upon these regions. The Choctaw territory was reported to be 
rich as cream; and I meditated to find out the best spots, in 
order to secure them by entry, as soon as the government could 
effect the treaty which should throw them into the market. In 
this ulterior object I was upheld by some of our neighboring 
capitalists, who had urged, to some extent, the measure upon 
me. I was not unwilling to do this for them, particularly as it 


16 


RICHARD HURDI3. 


did not interfere in my own plans to follow up theirs; but mji 
own desire was simply to stretch my limbs in freedom, to trav 
crse the prairies, to penetrate the swamps, to behold the climb¬ 
ing hills and lovely hollows of the Choctaw lands, and luxuriate 
in the eternal solitudes of their spacious forests. To feel my 
freedom was now my hope. I had been fettered long enough. 

But do not think me wanting in natural affection to my pa¬ 
rents : far from it. I effected no small achievement when I 
first resolved to leave my mother. It was no pain to leave my 
father. He was a man, a strong one too, and could do well 
enough without me. But, without spoiling me, my mother, of 
all her children, had made me most a favorite. I was her Rich¬ 
ard always. She considered me first, though I had an elder 
brother, and spoke of me in particular when speaking of her 
sons, and referred to me for counsel in preference to all the rest. 
This may have been because I was soon found to be the most 
decisive of all my brothers; and folks did me the further cour¬ 
tesy to say, the most thoughtful too. My elder brother, John 
Hurdis, was too fond of eating to be an adventurous man, and 
too slow and unready to be a performing one. We often quar¬ 
relled, too ; and this, perhaps, was another reason why I should 
desire to leave a place from which he was quite too lazy ever 
to depart. Had he been bold enough to go forth, I might not 
have been so ready to do so, for there were motives and ties to 
keep me at home, which shall have development as I proceed. 

My father, though a phlegmatic and proud man, showed 
much more emotion at the declaration of my resolve to leave 
him, than I had ever expected. His emotion arose, not so 
much from the love he bore me, as from the loss which he w r as 
about to sustain by my departure. I had been his best negro, 
and he confessed it. Night and day, without complaint, my time 
had been almost entirely devoted to his service, and his crops 
had never been half so good as when I had directed the labor 
of his force, and regulated his resources. My brother John 
had virtually given up to me the entire managepient, and my 
father was too well satisfied with the fruits of the change to 
make any objection. My resolution to leave him now, once 
more threw the business of the plantation upon John; and hii 
incompetence, the result of his inertness and obesity, rather 


A TRUANT DISPOSITION. 


17 


than of any deficiency of mind, was sorely apprehended by the 
old man I felt this to be the strongest argument against my 
departure. But was I always to be the slave I had been? 
Was I always to watch peas and potatoes, corn and cotton, 
without even the poor satisfaction of choosing the spot where it 
would please me best to watch them ? This reflection strength¬ 
ened me in my resolves, and answered my father. In answer 
to the expostulation of my mother, I made a promise, which in 
part consoled her. 

“ I will go but for a few months, mother—for the winter 
only; you will see me back in spring; and then, if father and 
myself can come to anything like terms, I will stay and super¬ 
intend for him, as I have done before.” 

“Terms, Richard!” were the old lady’s words in reply; 
“ what terms would you have, my son, that he will not agree 
to, so that they be in reason? He will give you one fifth — I 
will answer for it, Richard — and that ought to be quite enough 
to satisfy any one.” 

“More than enough, mother; more than I ask or expect 
But I can not now agree even to that. I must see the world 
a while; travel about; and if, at the end of the winter, I see no 
Detter place—no place, I mean, which I could better like to 
live in — why then I will come back, as I tell you, and go to 
work as usual.” 

There was some little indignation in the old lady’s answer: 

“ Better place ! like better to live in ! Why, Richard, what 
has come over you ? Are not the place you were born in, and 
the parents who bred you, and the people whom you have lived 
with all your life — are they not good enough for you, that you 
must come to me at this time of day, and talk about better 
places, and all such stuff? Really, my son, you forget yourself 
to speak in this manner. As if everything was not good enough 
for you here!” 

“ Good enough, mother; I answered gloomily; “good enough; 
perhaps — I deny it not; and yet not exactly to my liking. I 
am not pleased to waste my life as I do at present. I am not 
satisfied that I do myself justice. I feel a want in my mind, 
and an impatience at my heart; a thirst wlrch I can not ex¬ 
plain to you, and which, while here, I can not quench. I must 


18 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


go elsewhere— I must fix my eyes on other objects. Ye* for¬ 
get, too, that I have been repulsed, rejected — though you told 
me I should not be—where I had set my heart; and that the 
boon has been given to another, for which I had struggled long, 
and for a long season had hoped to attain. Can you wonder 
that I should seek to go abroad, even were I not moved by a 
natural desire at my time of life to see some little of the 
world ?” 

There were some portions of my reply which were conclu¬ 
sive, and to which my mother did not venture any answer; but 
my last remark suggested the tenor of a response which she 
did not pause to make. 

“But what can you see of the world, my son, among the 
wild places to which you think to go? What can you see at 
the Bluffs, or down by the Yazoo but woods and Indians? 
Besides, Bichard, the Choctaws are said to be troublesome now 
in the nation. Old Mooshoolatubbe and La Fleur are going to 
fight, and it will be dangerous travelling.” 

“ The very thing, mother,” was my hasty reply. “ I will 
take side with La Fleur, and when we have to fight Mooshoola¬ 
tubbe, get enough land for my reward, to commence business 
for myself. That last speech of yours, mother, is conclusive in 
my favor. I will be a rich man yet; and then”—in the bitter¬ 
ness of a disappointed spirit I spoke—“and then, mother, we 
will see whether John Hurdis is a better man with thirty ne¬ 
groes than Bichard Hurdis with but three. 

“ Why, who says he is, my son ?” demanded my mother with 
a tenderness of accent which increased while she spoke, and 
with eyes that filled with tears in the same instant. 

My heart told me I was wrong, but I could not forbear the 
reply that rose to my lips. 

“ Mary Easterby,” were the two words which made my only 
answer. 

• “Bichard, Bichard!” exclaimed the old lady, “you envy 
your brother.” 

“ Envy him ! No ! I envy him nothing, not even his better 
fortune. Let him wear what he has won, whether he be worthy 
of it or not. If, knowing me, she prefers him, be it 9 ). She 
is not the woman for me. I envy not his possessions ; neithei 





A TRUANT DISPOSITION. 


19 


his wife, nor his servant, his ox, nor his ass. It vexes me that 
I have been mistaken, mother, both in her, and in him; but, 
thank Heaven! I envy neither. I am not humble enough for 
that.” 

“ My dear Richard, you know that I have always sought to 
make you happy. It grieves me that you are not so. What 
would you have me do for you ?” 

“ Let me go forth in peace. Say nothing to my father to 
prevent it. Seem to be satisfied with my departure yourself. 
I will try to please you better when I return.” 

“You ask too much, my son ; but I will try. I will do any¬ 
thing for you, if you will only think and speak less scornfully 
of your elder brother.” 

“ And what are my thoughts and words to him, mother ? He 
feels them not—they do not touch him. Is he not my elder 
brother? Has he not all? The favor of our grandmother 
gave him wealth, and with his wealth, and from his wealth, 
comes the favor of Mary Easterby.” 

“You do her wrong!” said my mother. 

“ Do I, indeed ?” I answered bitterly. “ What! she takes 
him then for his better person, his nobler thoughts, his boldness, 
his industry, and the thousand other manly qualities, so winning 
in a woman’s eyes, which I have not, but which he possesses in 
such plenty ? Is it this that you would say, my mother ? Say 
it then if you can ; but well I know you must be silent. You 
can not speak, mother, and speak thus. For what then has 
Mary Easterby preferred John Hurdis? God forgive me if 1 
do her wrong, and Heaven’s mercy to her if she wrongs herself 
and me. At one time I thought she loved me, and I showed 
her some like follies. I will not say that she has not made me 
suffer ; but I rejoice that I can suffer like a man. Let me go 
rom you in quiet, dear mother; urge my departure, and believe, 
as I think, that it will be for the benefit of all.” 

My father’s entrance interrupted a conversation, which neither 
of us was disposed readily to resume. 


20 


RICHARD HURDI8. 


CHAPTER II. 

MARY EASTERBY. 

“There was but one 

In whom my heart took pleasure amongst women; 

One in the whole creation; and in her 

You dared to be my rival .”—Second Maiden's Tragedy. 

The reader has discovered my secret. I had long loved 
Mary Easterby, and without knowing it. The knowledge 
came to me at the moment when I ceased to hope. My brother 
was my rival, and, whatever were the charms he used, my suc¬ 
cessful rival. This may have given bitterness to the feeling of 
contempt with which his own feebleness of character had taught 
me to regard him. It certainly took nothing from the barrier, 
which circumstances and time had set up as a wall between us. 
Mary Easterby had grown up beside me. I had known no 
other companion among her sex. We had played together 
from infancy, and I had been taught to believe, when I came 
to know the situation of my own heart, and to inquire into that 
of hers, that she loved me. If she did not, I deceived myself 
most wofully; but such self-deception is no uncommon practice 
with the young of my age, and sanguine temperament. I 
would not dwell upon her charms could I avoid it; yet though 
I speak of, I should fail to describe and do not hope to do 
them justice. She was younger by three years than myself, 
and no less beautiful than young. Her person was tall, but not 
slight; it was too finely proportioned to make her seem tall, 
and grace was the natural result, not less of her physical sym¬ 
metry, than of her maiden taste, and sweet considerateness of 
character. Her eye was large and blue, her cheek not so round 
as full, and its rich rosy -color almost vied with that which 
crimsoned the pulpy outline of her lovely mouth. Her hair 


MARY EASTERBY. 


21 


was of a dark brown, and she wore it gathered irp simply in 
volume behind, a few stray tresses only being suffered to escape 
from bondage at the sides, to attest, as it were, the bountiful 
luxuriance with which nature had endowed her. See these 
tresses on her round white neck, and let your eye trace them 
in their progress to the swelling bosom on which they some¬ 
times rested; and you may conceive something of those charms, 
which I shall not seek further to describe. 

Though a dweller in the woods all her life, her mind and 
taste had not been left without due cultivation. Her father had 
been taught in one of the elder states, one of the old thirteen, 
and he carried many of the refinements of city life with him 
into the wilderness. Books she had in abundance, and these 
taught her everything of those old communities, which she had 
never yet been permitted to see. Her natural quickness of 
intellect, her prompt appreciation of what she read, enabled 
her at an early period duly to estimate those conventional and 
improved forms of social life to which her books perpetually 
referred, and which belong only to stationary abodes, where 
wealth brings leisure, and leisure provokes refinement. With 
such aid, Mary Easterby soon stood alone among the neighbor¬ 
ing damsels. Her air, manner, conversation, even dress, were 
not only different from, but more becoming, than those of her 
associates. She spoke with the ease and freedom of one bred 
up in the most assured society; and thought with a mind filled 
with standards which are not often to be met with in an insu¬ 
lated and unfrequented community. In short she was one of 
those beings such as lift the class to which they belong; such 
as represent rather a future than a present generation; and 
such as, by superior grasp of judgment or of genius, prepare 
the way for, and guide the aims of all the rest. 

It were folly to dwell upon her excellences, but that my 
narration may depend upon their development. They were 
powerful enough with me; and my heart felt, ere my mind 
could analyze them. A boy’s heart, particularly one who is 
the unsophisticated occupant of the forests, having few other 
teachers, is no sluggish and selfish creation, and mine was soon 
filled with Mary Easterby, and all its hopes and desires de¬ 
pended upon hers for their fulf^ment. It was the thought of 


22 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


all. that hers was not less dependent upon mine; and when the 
increasing intimacy of the maiden with my brother, and his 
confident demeanor toward herself and parents, led us all to 
regard him as the possessor of those affections which every¬ 
body had supposed to be mine, the matter was no less surprising 
to all than it was, for a season, bitter and overwhelming to me. 
I could have throttled my more fortunate brother—brother 
though he was—in the first moment of my rage at this discov¬ 
ery ; and all my love for Mary did not save her from sundry 
unmanly denunciations which I will not now venture to repeat. 
I did not utter these denunciations in her ears though I uttered 
them aloud. They reached her ears, however, and the medium 
of communication was John Hurdis. This last baseness aroused 
me to open rage against him. I told him to his teeth he was a 
scoundrel; and he bore with the imputation, and spoke of our 
blood connection as the reason for his forbearance to resent an 
indignity which, agreeably to our modes of thinking, could only 
be atoned for by blood. 

“ Brother, indeed I” I exclaimed furiously in reply. “ No, 
John Hurdis, you are no brother of mine, though our father 
and mother be the same. I acknowledge no relationship be¬ 
tween us. We are of a different family—of far-removed and 
foreign natures. My kindred shall never be found among .the 
base; and from this moment I renounce all kindred with you. 
Henceforth, we know nothing of each other only so far as it may 
be necessary to keep from giving pain and offence to our parents. 
But we shall not be long under that restraint. I will shortly 
leave you to yourself, to your conquests, and the undisturbed 
enjoyment of that happiness which you have toiled for so base¬ 
ly at the expense of mine.” 

He would have explained and expostulated, but I refused to 
hear him. He proffered me his hand, but with a violent blow 
of my own, I struck it down, and turned my shoulder upon him. 
It was thus, in such relationship, that we stood, when I announced 
to my mother my intention to leave the family. We barely spoke 
to one another when speech was absolutely unavoidable, and it 
was soon known to Mary Easterby, not less than to the persons 
of my own household, that our hearts were lifted in enmity 
against each other. She seized an early opportunity and spoke 


MARY EASTERBY. 


23 


to me on the subject. Either she mistook the nature of our 
quarrel, or the character of my affections. Yet how she could 
have mistaken the latter, or misunderstood the former, I can not 
imagine. Yet she did so. 

“ Richard, they say you have quarrelled with your brother.” 

“Does he say it—does John Hurdis say it, Mary?” was my 
reply. 

She paused and hesitated. I pressed the question with more 
earnestness as I beheld, her hesitation. She strove to speak with 
calmness, but was not altogether successful. Her voice trembled 
as she replied :— 

“He does not, Richard—not in words; but I have inferred 
it from what he does say, and from the fact that he has said so 
little. He seemed unwilling to tell me anything.” 

“He is wise,” I replied bitterly; “he is very wise; but it is 
late. Better he had been thus taciturn always!” 

“ Why speak you so, Richard V* she continued; “ why are 
you thus violent against your brother 1 What has he done to 
vex you to this pass ? Let me hear your complaint.” 

“ Complaint! I have none. You mistake me, Mary—I com¬ 
plain not. I complain of nobody. If I can not right my own 
wrongs, at least, I will not complain of them.” 

“Oh, be not so proud, Richard! be not so proud!” she re¬ 
plied earnestly; and her long white fingers rested upon my 
wrist for an instant, and were as instantly withdrawn. But 
that one touch was enough to thrill to the bone. It was my 
turn to tremble. She continued — “ There is no wisdom in this 
pride of yours, Richard; it is unbecoming in such frail beings 
as we are, and it will be fatal to your happiness.” 

“ Happiness !—my happiness ! Ah, Mary, if it be my pride 
only which is to be fatal to my happiness, then I am secure. 
But I fear not that. My pride is my hope now, my strength. 
It protects me—it shields my heart from my own weakness.” 

She looked in my face with glances of the most earnest in¬ 
quiry for a little while, and then spoke as follows:— 

“ Richard, there is something now-a-days about you which I 
do not exactly understand. You utter yourself in a language 
which is strange to me, and your manners have become strange ? 
Why is this—what is the matter?” 


24 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


“Nay, Mary; but that should be my question. The change 
is in you, not me. I am conscious of no change such as you 
speak of. But a truce to this. I see you are troubled. Let us 
talk of other things.” 

“ I am not troubled, Richard, except on your account. But, 
as you desire it, let us talk of other things; and, to return, why 
this hostility between yourself and your brother ?” 

“ Let him tell you. Demand it of him, Mary; he will better 
tell the story than I, as it will probably sound more to his cred¬ 
it than to mine, in your ears!” 

“ I know not that,” she replied; “ and know not why you 
should think so, Richard, unless you are conscious of having 
done wrong; and, if thus conscious, the cure is in your own 
hands.” 

“What!” I exclaimed impetuously. “You would have me 
go on my knees to John Hurdis, and humbly ask his pardon, 
for denouncing him as a scoundrel-” 

“ You have not done this, Richard V ’ was her sudden inquiry, 
silencing me in the middle of my hurried and thoughtless speech. 
The error was committed, and I had only to avow the truth. 
Gloomily I did so, and with a sort of sullen ferocity that must 
have savored very much of the expression of a wolf goaded to 
the verge of his den by the spear of the hunter. 

“ Ay, but I have, Mary Easterby ! I have called John Hur¬ 
dis a scoundrel, and only wonder that he told you not this along 
with the rest of my misdoings which he has been careful to re¬ 
late to you. Perhaps, he might have done so, had the story 
spoken more favorably for his manhood.” 

We had been sitting together by the window while the con¬ 
versation proceeded; but at this stage of it, she arose, crossed 
the apartment slowly, lingered for a brief space at an opposite 
window, then quietly returned to her seat. But her eyes gave 
proof of the big tears that had been gathering in them. 

“ Richard, I fear that you are doing me, and your brother 
both injustice. You are too quick, too prompt to imagine 
wrong, and too ready to act upon your imaginings. You speak 
to me with the tone of one who has cause of complaint— of an¬ 
ger ! Your eyes have an expression of rebuke which is pain¬ 
ful to me, and I think unjust. Your words are sharp, and 



MARY EASTERBY. 


25 


sometimes hostile and unfriendly. You are not what you were, 
Richard — in truth, you are not.” 

“ Indeed ! do you think so, Mary ?” 

“Ay, I do. Tell me, Richard, in what have I done you 
wrong ? Where is my error ? Of what do you complain V 1 

“ Have I not told you, Mary, that I have no cause of com¬ 
plaint—that I hold it unmanly to complain? And wherefore 
should I complain of you ? — I have no right. You are mistress 
of your own words and actions so far as Richard Hurdis is con¬ 
cerned.” 

The stubborn pride of my spirit was predominant, and the 
moment of explanation had gone by. A slight sigh escaped 
her lips as she replied — 

“ You are not what you used to he, Richard; but I know not 
what has changed you.” 

She had spoken soothly — I was not what I was. A dark 
change had come upon me—a gloomy shadow had passed over 
my spirit, chilling its natural warmth and clouding its glory. 
The first freshness of my heart’s feelings was rapidly passing 
from me. I had worshipped fruitlessly, if not unwisely; and, 
if the deity of my adoration was not unworthy of its tribute, it 
gave hack no response of favor to the prayer of the supplicant. 

Such were my thoughts — such the conviction which was 
driving me into banishment. For banishment it was—utter, 
irrevocable banishment, which I then meditated. The promise 
given to my mother was meant to soothe her heart, and silence 
her entreaties. I meant never to return. In deeper forests 
—in a wilder home — I had resolved to choose me out an 
abode, which, if it had fewer attractions, had, at the same time, 
fewer trials for a bosom vexed like mine. I feared not the si¬ 
lence and the loneliness of the Indian habitations, when those 
to which I had been accustomed, had become, in some respects, 
so fearful. I dreaded no loneliness so much as that of my own 
heart, which, having devoted itself exclusively to another, was 
denied the communion which it sought. 

2 


26 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


CHAPTER III. 

COMRADE IN EXILE. 

‘ Now go we in content 

To liberty, and not to banishment.”— .4s Fom Like lu 
“ Brothers in exile, 

Hath not old custom made this life more sweet 

Than that of painted pomp?”— Same. 

Was I right in such a resolution ? Was it proper in me, be 
cause one had made me desolate, to make others—and not that 
one — equally so? I know not. I inquired not thus at the 
time, and the question is unnecessary now. My resolution was 
taken at a leap. It was a resolution made by my feelings, in 
which my thoughts had little part. And yet I reasoned upon 
it, and gave stubborn arguments in its defence to others. It is 
strange how earnestly the mind will devote itself to the exac¬ 
tions of the blood, and cog, and connive, and cavil, in compli¬ 
ance with the appetites and impulses of the body. The animal 
is no small despot when it begins to sway. 

In leaving home, however, and going abroad among strangers 
I did not purpose to go alone. My arguments, which had noi 
moved myself, had their influence upon another. A young man 
of the neighborhood, about my own age, with whom I had been 
long intimate, consented to go along with me. His situation 
and motives were alike different from mine. He was not only 
a wealthy man, in the estimation of the country, but he was for 
tunate—perhaps because he was wealthy—in the favor and re 
gard of a young damsel to whom he had proffered vows which 
had proved acceptable. He was an accepted man, fortunate or 
not; and in this particular of fortune he differed from me as 
widely as in his moneyed concerns. His property consisted in 
negroes and ready money. He had forty of the former, and 


COMRADE IN EXILE. 


27 


aorne three thousand dollars, part in specie, but the greater 
part in United States bank notes, then considered quite as 
good. He wanted lands, and to supply this want was the chief 
motive for his resolve to set out with me. The damsel to whom 
he was betrothed was poor, but she wore none of the deport¬ 
ment of poverty. The neighborhood thought her proud. I 
can not say that I thought with them. She was more reserved 
than young women commonly, at her time of life — more digni¬ 
fied, thoughtful, and, perhaps, more prudent. She was rather 
pensive in her manner ; and yet there was a quickness of move¬ 
ment in the flashing of her dark black eye, that bespoke sudden 
resolve, and a latent character which needed hut the stroke of 
trial and the collision of necessity to give forth unquenchable 
flame. She said little; but that little, when spoken, was ever 
to the point and purpose, and seemed unavoidable. Yet, though 
thus taciturn in language, there was speech in every movement 
of her eyes—in all the play of her intelligent and remarkable 
features. She was not beautiful — scarcely pretty, if you ex¬ 
amined her face with a design to see its charms. But few ever 
looked at her with such an object. The character which spoke 
in her countenance was enough, and you forbore to look for 
other beauties. Emmeline Walker was a thinking and intelli¬ 
gent creature, and her mind pre-occupied yours at a glance, and 
satisfied you with her, without suffering you to look farther. 
You felt not as when gazing on mere beauty—you felt that 
there was more to be seen than was seen—that she had a re¬ 
source of wealth beyond wealth, and which, like the gift of the 
fairy, though worthless in its outward seeming was yet inex¬ 
haustible in its supplies. 

Her lover, though a youth of good sense, and very fair edu¬ 
cation, was not a man of mind. He was a man to memorize 
and repeat, not to reason and originate. He could follow 
promptly, but he would not do to lead. He lacked the think¬ 
ing organs, and admired his betrothed the more, as he discov¬ 
ered that she was possessed of a readiness, the w r ant of which 
he had deplored in himself. It is no unfrequent thing with us 
to admire a quality rather because of our own lack of it, than 
because of its intrinsic value. 

William Carrington was not without his virtues of mind, as 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


2 * 

well as of heart. He was temperate in his deportment, forbear 
mg in his prejudices, modest in correspondence with his want 
of originality, and earnest in his desire of improvement. His 
disposition was gentle and playful. He laughed too readily, 
perhaps; and his confidence was quite as free and unrestrain- 
able as his mirth. While my nature, helped by my experi¬ 
ence, perhaps, made me jealous, watchful, and suspicious, his, 
on the other hand, taught him to believe readily, to trust fear¬ 
lessly, and to derive but little value even from his own experi¬ 
ence of injustice. We were not unfit foils, and consequently 
not unseemly companions for one another. 

Carrington was seeking lands, and his intention was to be at 
the land-sale in Chocchuma, and to purchase with the first fit¬ 
ting opportunity. Having bought, he proposed to hurry back 
to Marengo, marry, and set forth in the spring of the ensuing 
year for his new home. His plans were all marked out, and 
his happiness almost at hand. Emmeline offered no objection 
to his arrangements, and showed no womanly weakness at his 
preparations for departure. She gave my hand a gentle pres¬ 
sure when I bade her farewell, and simply begged us to take 
care of each other. I did not witness the separation between 
the lovers, but I am convinced that she exhibited far less, yet 
felt much more than William, and that, after the parting, he 
laughed out aloud much the soonest of the two. Not that he 
did not love her. He loved quite as fervently as it was in his 
nature to love; but his heart was of lighter make and of less 
earnest temper than hers. He could be won by new colors to 
a forgetfulness of the cloud which had darkened his spirits, and 
the moan of his affliction was soon forg*. tten in gayer and newer 
sounds. Not so with her. If she did not moan aloud, she could 
brood in secret, like the dove upon the blasted bough, over her 
own heart, and, watching its throbs, forget that the world held 
it no propriety to weep. 


THE HOSTILE GRAPPLE. 


2<J 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE HOSTILE GRAPPLE. 

Oliver. Know you before whom, sir? 

Orlando. Ay, better than he I am before knows me. I know you are my 
elder brother; and, in the gentle condition of blood, you should so know 
me. The courtesy of nations allows you my better, in that you are the first 
born; but the same tradition takes not away my blood were there twenty 
brothers betwixt us. I have as much of my father in me as you; albeit, 1 
confess your coming before me is nearer to his reverence. 

Oliver. What, boy? 

Orlando. Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this. 

Oliver. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain? 

Orlando. I am no villain : wert thou not my brother, I would not take 
this hand from thy throat, till this other had pulled out thy tongue fur say 
ing so! As You Like It. 

The time approached which had been appointed for our de¬ 
parture, and the increased heating of my heart warned me of 
some trial-scenes yet to be undergone. I knew that I should 
have little difficulty at parting with my father, and much less 
with my more fortunate brother. The parting from my mother 
was a different matter, as, knowing well the love which she 
bore me, I was already prepared for her sorrow, if not agony, 
when bidding me farewell. Besides, resolving in my secret 
mind never to return, I had a feeling of compunction for my 
meditated hypocrisy, which added the annoyance of shame tG 
my own sorrow on the occasion. I did not think less of the 
final separation from Mary Easterby, but my pride schooled my 
heart in reference to her. I resolved that she should see me go 
without a change of feature, without the quivering of a single 
muscle. I resolved to see her. A more prudent man would 
nave gone away in silence and in secrecy. He would have as 
resolutely avoided as I sought the interview. But I was not a 


30 


RICHARD HURDI8. 


prudent man. My feelings were too impetuous, my pride too 
ostentatious, to suffer me to hide it from exhibition. To depart 
without seeking and seeing Mary would be a tacit acknowledg¬ 
ment of weakness. It would seem that I feared the interview; 
that I questioned my own strength to contend against an influ¬ 
ence which all around me suspected, but which it was my pride 
not to acknowledge even to myself. 

The day came preceding that on which I was to depart; and 
the dinner was scarcely over, when, ordering my horse, I set 
out to go to Squire Easterby’s plantation. The distance was 
seven miles, a matter of no importance in a country where, 
from childhood, the people are used equally to fine horses and 
long distances. I rode slowly, however, for I was meditating 
what I should say, and how I should demean myself during the 
interview which I sought. While I deliberated, I discovered 
that I had overtasked my strength. I felt that I loved too ear¬ 
nestly not to be somewhat, if not severely, tried. Could it have 
been that at that late moment I could have re-resolved, and, 
without a depreciation of my self-esteem, have turned back, I 
feel that I should have done so. But my pride would not suffer 
this, and I resolved to leave it to the same pride to sustain and 
succor me throughout. To lose emotions which I found it im¬ 
possible to subdue, I increased the speed of my horse. Stri¬ 
king the rowel into his flanks, and giving him free rein, I 
plunged into the solitary yet crowded woods, over a road which 
I had often trodden, and which was now filled at every step in 
my progress with staring, obtrusive memories, which chattered 
as I went in sweet and bitter yet familiar tongues. 

How often had I trodden the same region with her, when I 
had no fears, and none but pleasant images rose up before my 
contemplation! What harmonies were my unspoken, my un¬ 
challenged hopes on those occasions ! What pictures of felicity 
rose before the mind on every side ! Not that I then thought 
of love — not that I proposed to myself any plan or purpose 
which regarded our union. No! it was in the death of my 
hope that I was first taught to know that it had ever lived. It 
was only in the moment that I was taught that I loved in vain, 
that my boy-heart discovered that it had ever loved at all. 
Memories wire all that I had rescued from the wreck of hope, 


THE HOSTILE GRAPPLE. 


31 


and they were such as I had been most willing to have lost for 
ever. It was but a sad consolation to know how sweet had 
been those things which I had once known, but which I was 
doomed to know no longer. 

Bitter were the thoughts which attended me as I rode; yet in 
their very bitterness my soul gathered its strength. The sweets 
of life enfeeble us. We struggle among them as a greedy fly in 
the honey which clogs its wings, and fetters it for ever. The 
grief of the heart is sometimes its best medicine, and though it 
may not give us back the lost, it arms us against loss, and blunts 
the sensibility which too frequently finds its fate in its own 
acuteness. From my bitter thoughts I gathered resolution. I 
remembered the intimacy which had formerly prevailed between 
us; how we had mutually confided to each other—how I had 
entirely confided to her; how joint were our sympathies, how 
impatient our desires to be together; how clearly she must have 
seen the feelings which I never spoke; how clearly had like 
feelings in her been exhibited (so I now thought) to me: and, 
as I dwelt on these memories, I inly resolved that she had tri¬ 
fled with me. She had won me by her arts, till my secret was 
in her possession, and then, either unmoved herself, or willing 
to sacrifice her affections to a baser worship, she had given her¬ 
self to another whom she could not love, but whose wealth had 
been too great a temptation to her woman-eyes for her feeble 
spirit to withstand. 

That she was engaged to my brother, I never doubted for an 
instant. It was as little the subject of doubt among the whob 
neighborhood. Indeed it was the conviction of the neighbor¬ 
hood, and the old women thereof which produced mine; and 
then, the evidence seemed utterly conclusive. John Hurdis 
spoke of Mary Easterby, as if tbe right were in him to speak 
for her; and she — she never denied the imputation. It is true 
I had never questioned her on the subject, nor indeed, do 1 
know that she had ever been questioned by others; but where 
was the necessity to inquire when there was seemingly so little 
occasion for doubt ? The neighborhood believed, and it was no 
hard matter for one, so jealous and suspicious as myself, to leap 
with even more readiness to a like conclusion. 

And yet, riding along that road, all my memories spoke 


3i 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


against so strange a faith. It was impossible that she who had 
so freely confided to me the fancies and the feeling of her child¬ 
hood, to whom I had so readily yielded mine, should have given 
herself up to another, with whom no such communion had 
existed — to whom no such sympathy had been ever shown. 
We had sat or reclined under the same tree — we had sought 
the same walks together—the same echoes had caught the 
tones of our kindred voices, and chronicled, by their responses 
from the hill-side and among the groves, the sentiments of our 
unfettered hearts. And how could she love another? Her 
hand had rested in mine without a fear—my arm had encircled 
her waist without a resistance on her part, or a meditating 
wrong on mine. And had we not kissed each other at meeting 
and parting, from childhood, and through its pleasant limits, 
until—ay, almost until the moment when the right of another 
first led me to know what dear privileges had been my own ? 
Wonder not at the bitterness of my present memories. 

It was at the moment when they were bitterest, that a sudden 
turn in the road revealed to me the person of John Hurdis. I 
recoiled in my saddle, and, under the involuntary impulse of 
my hands, bore back my horse until he almost sunk upon his 
haunches. The movement of both could not have been more 
prompt if we had beheld a vexed and ready adder in our path 
And had he not been the adder in my path ? Had he not, by 
his sly and sneaking practices, infused his venom into the mind 
of her upon whom my hope, which is the life of life, utterly 
depended ? Had he not struck at my heart with a sting not less 
fearful, though more concealed, than that of the adder; and if 
he had failed to destroy, was it not rather because of the feeble¬ 
ness of his fang, than either its purpose or its venom. If he 
had not, then did I do him grievous wrong. I thought he had, 
and my soul recoiled, as I surveyed him, with a hatred, which, 
had he been other than my mother’s son, would have prompted 
me to slay him. 

I had rounded a little swamp that lay upon the side of the 
road, and gave it the outline of a complete elbow. John 
Hurdis was some fifty yards in advance of me. I had not seen 
him at dinner, and there was he now on his way to the dwelling 
of her to whom T was about to pay my parting visit. The 


THE HOSTILE GRAPPLE. 


83 


thought that I should meet him with her, that he might behold 
these emotions which it shamed me to think I might not be 
altogether able to conceal, at once brought about a change in 
my resolve. I determined to give him no such chance of 
triumph; and was about to turn the head of my horse and 
return to my father, when he stopped short, wheeled round and 
beckoned me to advance. My resolution underwent a second 
change. That he should suppose that I shrunk from an en¬ 
counter with him of any description was, if possible, even more 
mortifying than to expose the whole amount of my heart’s 
weakness to Mary Easterby before his eyes. I determined to 
give him no such cause for exultation, and furiously spurring 
forward, another instant brought me beside him. 

His face was complaisance itself, and his manner was pre¬ 
suming enough; and there was something in the slight smile 
which played about the corners of his mouth, and in the twinkle 
of his eye, which I did not relish. It may have been that, in 
the morbid state of my feelings, I saw through a false medium; 
but I could not help the thought, that there was exultation in 
his smile, and my jaundiced spirit put on new forms of jealousy 
with this conviction. The blood boiled within my veins, as I 
regarded him, and thought thus; and I trembled like a dry leaf 
in the gusts of November, while I suppressed, or strove to sup¬ 
press, the rebellious and unruly impulses to which it prompted 
me. I struggled to be calm. For my mother’s sake, I resolved 
to say and do nothing which should savor of violence at the 
moment when I was about to part with her for ever. 

“I will bear it all—all. I will be patient,” I said to my 
soul; “ It is not long, it will soon be over. Another day and I 
will be free from the chance of contact with the base, dishonest 
reptile. Let him gain, let him triumph as he may. It may be 
—the day may come! But no—I will not think of such a 
thing; revenge is not for me. He is still, though base, a 
brother. Let the eternal avenger decree his punishment, and 
choose his fitting executioner,” 

These thoughts, and this resolution of forbearance, were all 
over in the progress of an instant; and we rode by the side^ of 
one another, as two belligerents who had lately been warring 
to the very knife, but who, under the security of a temporary 


34 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


truce, look on one another, and move together with a mixed air, 
half of peace, half of war, and neither altogether assured of the 
virtue which is assumed to exist in their mutual pledges. 

“Did I not see you turn your horse, Richard, as if to go 
back V* 

“ You did,” was my reply; and my face flushed as he thus 
compelled me to the acknowledgment. 

“ And wherefore V* 

“ Wherefore !” I paused when I had repeated the word. It 
would have been too galling to have spoken out the truth. I 
continued thus:— 

“ I saw you proceeding in the same direction, and cared not 
to be in the way. Your good fortune is too well-known, to 
require that you should have fresh witnesses. Besides, my 
farewell—for it is only to say farewell, that I go now—is no 
such important matter.” 

“You are right, Richard. My good fortune needs no wit¬ 
nesses, though it likes them. But why should you think that 
you could be in the way 1 What do you mean by that ?” 

“ Mean! can you ask,” I replied, with something of a sneer 
growing on my lips as I proceeded, “ when you know it is 
proverbial that young lovers, who are apt to be more senti¬ 
mental than sensible, usually, need no third persons at their 
interviews ? Indeed, for that matter, the third person likes it 
quite as little as themselves.” 

“ Less, perhaps, Richard, if he himself has been a loser at 
the game,” was the retort. 

“ Ay,” I rejoined bitterly; “ but if the game be played 
foully, his dislike is quite as much the result of his scorn, as of 
his disappointment. He is reconciled to his loss, when he finds 
its worthlessness, and he envies not the victor, whose treach¬ 
ery, rather than his skill, has been the source of his greater 
success.” 

The lips of my brother grew positively livid, as he opened 
them, as if in the act to speak. He was prudent in forbearing, 
for he kept silent. 

“Look you, John Hurdis,” I continued, turning full upon 
him as I spoke, and putting my hand upon his shoulder. He 
shrank from under it. His guilty conscience had put a morbid 









































Page. 25 , 


































THE HOSTILE GRAPPLE. 


\Jb 

nerve under every inch of flesh in his system. I laughed aloud 
as I beheld him. 

“ Why do you shrink V* I demanded, now in turn becoming 
the questioner. 

** Shink—I shrink—did I shrink 1 ?” he answered me con¬ 
fusedly, scarcely conscious what he said. 

“Ay—did you,” I responder with a glance intended to go 
through him. “You shrank as if my finger were fire — as if 
you feared that I meant to harm you.” 

His pride came to his relief. He plucked up strength to say, 
“ You mistake, Richard. I did not shrink, and if I did, it was 
not through fear of you or any other man.” 

My hand again rested on his shoulder, as I replied—my eye 
searching through him all the while with a keenness, beneath 
which, it was a pleasure to me to behold him again shrink and 
falter. 

“ You may deceive yourself, John Hurdis, but you can not 
deceive me. You did shrink from my touch, even as you shrink 
now beneath mine eye. More than this, John Hurdis, you do 
fear me whatever may be your ordinary courage in the presence 
of other men. I see—I feel that you fear me; and I am not 
less assured on the subject of your fears. You would not fear 
were you not guilty—nor tremble now while I speak were you 
less deserving of my punishment. But you need not tremble. 
You are secure, John Hurdis. That which you have in your 
bosom of my blood is your protection for the greater quantity 
which you have that is not mine, and with which my soul scorns 
all communion.” 

His face grew black as he gazed upon me. The foam flecked 
his blanched lips even as it gathers upon the bit of the driven 
and infuriated horse. His frame quivered — his tongue mut¬ 
tered inaudible sounds, and he gazed on me, laboring, but in 
vain, to speak. I laughed as I beheld his feeble fury — I 
laughed in the abundance of my scorn, and he then spoke. 

“ Boy !” he cried—“ boy—but for your mother, I should lay 
this whip over your shoulders.” 

He shook it before me as he spoke, and I grappled with him 
on the instant. With a sudden grasp, and an effort, to oppose 
which, he had neither strength of soul nor of body, I dragged 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


3fi 

him from his horse. Straining feebly and ineffectually to resist 
his coward tendency, he, at length, after a few struggles, fell 
heavily upon the ground and almost under the feet of my ani¬ 
mal. His own horse passed away, and at the same moment, I 
leaped down from mine. My blood was in a dreadful tumult— 
my fingers twitched nervously to grapple with him again, but 
ere I could do so, a sound—a scream—the sudden and re¬ 
peated shrieks of a woman’s voice, arrested me in my angry 
purpose, and I stood rooted to the spot. Too well I knew that 
voice, and the tremor of rage which an instant before had 
shaken me to the centre was now succeeded by a tremor far 
more powerful. Unlike the former it was enfeebling, palsying 
— it took from me the wolfish strength with which the former 
seemed to have endued me. The voice of a girl had given me 
the weakness of a girl, and like a culprit I stood, as if fixed 
md frozen, until my brother had arisen from the ground where 
t had thrown him, and Mary Easterby stood between us. 


PARTING SCENES. 


37 


CHAPTER V 

PART NO SCENES. 

“I thought to chide thee, but it will not be; 

True love can but awhile look bitterly.” 

Heywood — Love'a Mistreat. 

“You have led me 
Into a subtle labyrinth, where I never 
Shall have fruition of my former freedom.” 

The Lady's Privilege. 

S ie stood between us like some judge suddenly descended 
from heaven, and armed with power to punish, and I stood be¬ 
fore her like a criminal conscious of my demerits and waiting 
for the doom. An instant before she came, and I had a thou¬ 
sand arguments, each, to my mind, sufficient to justify me for 
any violence which I might execute upon John Hurdis. Now 
I had not one. The enormity of the act of which I had been 
guilty, seemed to expand and swell with every accumulated 
thought upon it; and my tongue, that had been eloquent with 
indignation but a little while before, was now frozen with si¬ 
lence, and without even the power of evasion or appeal. I did 
not venture to look her in the face—I did not venture even to 
look upon my brother. What were his feelings I know not; 
but if they partook, at that moment, of any of the intense hu¬ 
mility which made up the greater part of mine, then was he 
almost sufficiently punished for the injuries which he had done 
me. I certainly felt that he was almost if not quite avenged 
in my present humility for the unbrotherly anger of which he 
had been the victim. 

“ Oh, Richard Hurdis/’ she exclaimed, “ this violence, and 
upon your brother too.” 

Why had she not addressed her speech to him f Was I alone 


38 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


guilty? Had he not provoked—had he not even threatened 
me ? The thought that she was now again showing the par¬ 
tiality in his favor which had been the source of my unhappi¬ 
ness, changed the tenor of my feelings. My sense of humilia¬ 
tion gave way to offended pride, and I answered with sullen 
defiance. 

“ And am I only to blame, Mary Easterby ? Can you see 
fault in no other than me ? Methinks this is less than justice, 
and I may safely deny the authority which so openly affronts 
justice with an avowal of its partialities.” 

“ I have no partialities, Richard—it is you that are unjust. 
The violence that I witnessed was only yours. I saw not any 
other.” 

“There was indignity and insolence—provocation enough, 
Mary Easterby,” I replied hastily, “ if not violence, to justify 
me in what I did. But I knew not that you beheld us. I 
would not else have punished John Hurdis. I would have 
borne with his insolence—I would have spared him his shame 
— if not on his account, on yours. I regret that you have seen 
us, though I have no regret for what I have done.” 

I confronted my brother as I spoke these words, as if to sat¬ 
isfy him that I was ready to give him the only form of atone¬ 
ment which I felt his due. He seemed to understand me, and 
to do him all justice, his port was as manly as I could desire 
that of my father’s son to be at all times. His eye flashed 
back a family expression of defiance, and his lips were closed 
with a resoluteness that showed him to be fully roused. But 
for the presence of Mary Easterby, we had come to the death 
struggle in that very hour. But we felt ourselves too greatly 
wrong not to acknowledge her superiority. Vexed and sullen 
as I was, I was doubly vexed with the consciousness of error; 
and when she spoke again in answer to my last words my cha¬ 
grin found due increase in what she said. 

“ I know nothing of the provocation, Richard, and need noth¬ 
ing to believe that there was provocation, or that you thought 
so, which moved you to what you did. I could not suppose, for 
an instant, that you would proceed to such violence without 
provocation; but that any provocation short of violence itself, 
will justify violence — and violence too upon a brother — I can 


PARTING SCENES. 


39 


\iot admit, nor, in your secret heart, Richard, do you admit it 
yourself. What would your mother say, Richard, were she to 
hear this story V’ 

“ She might be less angry, and less pained, Mary Easterby, 

than you imagine, if she knew all the story. If she knew- 

but no! why should I recount his villanies, Mary Easterby, 
and least of all why recount them to you ? I will not.” 

“Nor do I wish—nor would I hear them, Richard,” she 
replied promptly, though gently. I saw the eyes of John 
Hurdis brighten, and my soul felt full of bitterness. 

“ What! you would not believe me, then, Mary Easterby. 
Can it he that your prejudices go so far as that ?” 

The tears gathered in her eyes as they were fixed upon mine 
and beheld the sarcastic and scornful expression in them, but 
she replied without hesitation. 

“You are unjust, and unkind to me, Richard;” and her 
voice trembled : she proceeded : — 

“ I would be unwilling to believe, and am quite as unwilling 
to hear anything which could be prejudicial to the good name 
of any of your family, your brother or yourself. I have loved 
them all too long and too truly, Richard, to find pleasure in 
anything which spoke against their worth. I should be not 
less unwilling, Richard, to think that you could say anything 
which did not merit and command belief. I might think you 
guilty of error, never of falsehood.” 

“ Thank you, Mary; for so much, at least, let me thank you. 
You do me justice only. When I speak falsely, of man or wo¬ 
man, brother or stranger, friend or foe, let my tongue cleave to 
my mouth in blisters.” 

John Hurdis mounted his horse at that moment, and an air 
of dissatisfaction seemed to hang upon his features. He mut¬ 
tered something to himself, the words of which were unintelli¬ 
gible to us; then speaking hurriedly to Mary, he declared his 
intention of riding on to her father’s farm, then but a short 
mile off. She begged him to do so, courteously, but, as I thought 
coldly; and giving a bitter glance of enmity towards me, he 
put spurs to his horse and was soon out of sight. 

His absence had a visible effect upon her, and I felt that 
much of the vexation was passing from my own heart. There 


40 


RICHARD HURDI8. 


was something in the previous conversation between us which 
had softened me, and when the tramp of his horse’s heels was 
no longer in hearing, it seemed as if a monstrous barrier had 
been broken down from between us. All my old thoughts and 
fancies returned to me; sweet memories, which I had just be¬ 
fore angrily dismissed, now came back confidently to my mind, 
and taking her hand in one of mine, while leading my horse 
with the other, we took our course through a narrow path 
which wound through a pleasant thicket, we had trodden to¬ 
gether a thousand times before. 

“ Mary,” I began, as we proceeded, “ this is our old walk. 
Do you remember ? That pine lias lain across the path from 
the first time we knew it.” 

“ Yes, it looks the same as ever, Richard, with one excep¬ 
tion which I have remarked more than once and particularly 
this morning. The end of it, upon which we used to sit, is 
scarcely to be got at now, the bushes have grown up so thickly 
around it.” 

“ It is so long, Mary, since we have used it. It was out 
visits that kept the brush down. The weeds grow now without 
interruption from us—from me at least; and the time is fai 
distant when I shall visit it again. Do you know, Mary, I am 
come to bid you good-by ? I leave Marengo to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow ! so soon ?” 

“ Soon ! Do you think it soon, Mary ? I have been making 
preparations for months. Certainly, I have declared my inten¬ 
tion for months.” 

“ Indeed! but not to me. I did hear something of such a 
purpose being in your mind; but I hoped, I mean I believed 
that it was not true.” 

“ Did you hope that it was not true ?” I demanded with some 
earnestness. She answered with the ready frankness of child¬ 
hood. 

“ Surely I did; and when John Hurdis told me-” 

“John Hurdis is no authority for me,” I said gloomily, 
breaking off her speech in the middle. The interruption brought 
us back to our starting-place, from the contemplation of which, 
since my brother’s departure, we had both tacitly seemed to 
shrink. 


PARTING SCENES. 


41 


“ Oh, Richard, this an evil temper !” she exclaimed. “ Why 
do you encourage it? Why this angry spirit toward your 
brother ! It is an evil mood, and can do no good. Besides, I 
think you do him injustice. He is gentle and good natured; 
lie wants your promptness, it may be, and he lacks something 
of your enterprise and industry. Perhaps, too, he has not the 
same zealous warmth of feeling, but truly I believe that his 
heart is in the right place.” 

“ It is your policy to believe so, Mary ; else where is yours V* 

“Mine!” she exclaimed; and her eye was fixed upon me 
with an expression of mixed curiosity and wonder. 

“Ay, yours,” I continued, giving a construction to the equiv 
ocal form of my previous speech, differing from that which 1 
originally intended; “ ay, yours, for if it be not, your charity 
is wasted. But no more of this, Mary, if you please. The sub¬ 
ject, for sundry reasons, is an unpleasant one to me. John 
Hurdis is fortunate in your eulogy, and for your sake, not less 
than his, I will not seek, by any word of mine, to disturb your 
impressions. My words might prejudice your opinion of his 
worth, without impairing its intrinsic value; and it may be, as 
you think, that I am all wrong about it. He is a fortunate 
man, that John Hurdis — doubly fortunate, Mary. He has the 
wealth which men toil for, and fight for, and lie for, and sell 
themselves to the foul fiend for in a thousand ways: he has the 
favor of women; a greater temptation, for which they do a 
thousand times worse. He has those possessions, Mary, some 
of which I am never to have, but for the rest of which I am 
even now about to leave the home and perhaps all the happi¬ 
ness of my childhood.” 

“ You surely do not envy your brother, Richard, any of his 
possessions V* 

“ Let me know what they are, Mary; let them be enumer¬ 
ated, and then will I answer you. Envy John Hurdis I do 
not; that is to say, I do not envy him his wealth, or his wis¬ 
dom, his lands, his negroes, or any of his worldly chattels. 
Are you satisfied now, Mary, that there is nothing base in my 
envy, though it may be that he has something yet which pro¬ 
vokes it V* 

“ And what is that, Richard ?” 


42 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


Why did I not answer her in plain language ? How often 
have I repented that I did not! How much sorrow might have 
been spared me else! But I was proud of heart as Lucifer— 
proud in my own despite, stubborn to my own sorrow. 

“ Mary, ask me not,” I answered. “ What matter is it to 
know, when, even were he to lose that which I envy him, it 
might be that I would not be esteemed worthy to possess it?” 

“ Richard, there is something strange to me in your tones, 
and mysterious in your language. Why do you not speak to 
me as formerly? Why are you changed — why should you be 
changed to me ? You scarcely speak now without saying some¬ 
thing which I do not thoroughly comprehend. There is a hid¬ 
den meaning in everything you say; and it seems to me that 
you are suspicious and distrustful of the honesty of every 
body.” 

“And should I not be, Mary? He is not a wise man who 
learns no lessons of caution from the deception of others; who, 
wronged once, suffers himself to be wronged a second time from 
the same source. I may be distrustful, but I am prudently so, 
Mary.” 

“ You prudent, Richarc ! I fear that even now you deceive 
yourself, as it seems to me you must have deceived yourself 
before. You have not said, Richard, by whom you have been 
wronged—by whose dishonesty you have acquired all these 
lessons of prudence and circumspection.” 

How could I answer this ? Whom could I accuse ? I could 
only answer by replying to another portion of her remarks. 

“ You think me changed, Mary, and I will not deny it. I 
am certainly not so happy as I have been; but my change has 
only corresponded with the changed aspects of the world around 
me. I know that I have undergone no greater changes than 
others that I know — than you, for example. You are changed, 
Mary, greatly changed in my sight.” 

The deepest crimson and the utmost pallor succeeded to each 
other in rapid alternations upon her cheek. Her bosom heaved 
—her hand trembled within my own. I thought at first that 
she would have fainted, and, dropping the bridle of my horse, 
I supported her shrinking form with my arm. But she recov¬ 
ered herself almost instantly; and, advancing from the clasp of 


PARTING SCENES. 43 

my arm, which had encircled her waist>, with a sudden compo¬ 
sure which astonished me, she replied : — 

“ I did not think it, Richard; I am not conscious of any 
change in me, but it may be even as you say. I could have 
wished you had not seen it, if it be so; for, of a truth, I have 
not striven for change, and it gives me pain to think that T do 
seem so—to my friends at least.” 

“ It is so, Mary. I once thought—but no ! wherefore should 
I speak of such things now?—” 

She interrupted me by a sudden and hurried effort — seem¬ 
ingly an impulsive one : — 

“ Oh, speak it, Richard— speak aloud — speak freely as you 
used to speak when we were happy children together. Be no 
longer estranged—think me not so ! Speak your thought, and, 
as I hope for kindness from all I love, I will as freely utter 
mine.” 

“ No !” I exclaimed coldly, and half-releasing her fingers from 
my grasp ; “ no, Mary, it were but a folly now to say what were 
my thoughts once—my feelings—my fancies. I might have 
done so in a former day; but now I can not. I acknowledge 
the change, and so must you. It is a wise one. Ere long, 
Mary, long before I return to Marengo, you will undergo an¬ 
other change, perhaps, which I shall not witness, and shall not 
desire to witness.” 

“ What is it that you mean, Richard ?” 

“Nothing—no matter what. It will be a happy change to 
you, Mary, and that should be enough to make me satisfied with 
it. God knows I wish you happiness—all happiness — as com¬ 
plete as k is in man’s power to make it to you. I must leave 
you now. The sun is gone, and I have to ride over to Carring¬ 
ton’s to-night. Good-by, Mary, good-by.” 

“Are you going, Richard?” she said, without looking up 

“Yes, I have loitered too long already.” 

“ You will write to us—to father ?” 

« No; of what use to write ? Wherefore tax your sympathies 
by telling the story of my sufferings ?” 

“ But your successes, Richard ?” 

“ You will believe them without the writing.” 

“ So cold, Richard ?” 


44 


RICHARD HURDI8. 


“ So prudent, Mary—prudent.” 

“And you will not go to the house V* 

“ What! to meet him there \ No, no ! Good-by — God bless 
you, Mary, whatever bo your changes of fortune or condition!” 
I carried her hand to my lips, flung it from me, and, gathering 
up the bridle of my steed, was soon upon my way. Was it in 
truth a sob which I heard behind me ? I stole a glance back¬ 
ward— and she sat upon.the log, with her face buried in her 
hands. 


EVIL MOODS. 


45 


CHAPTER VI. 

EVIL MOODS. 

‘ Why talk we not together hand-in-hand, 

And tell our griefs in more familiar terms? 

But thou art gone, and leav’st me here alone, 

To dull the air with my discoursive moan t” 

Marlowe and Nash. 

“ She sat upon the log, with her face buried in her hands." 
More than once, as I rode away that evening, did I repeat these 
words to myself. Wherefore should she exhibit such emotion ? 
wherefore should she sob at my departure ? Did she not love 
— was she not betrothed to another? Of this I had no doubt, 
and what could I think ? Was not such emotion natural enough ? 
Had we not been born as it were together ? Had we not been 
together from the earliest dawn of infancy — at that period 
when children, like clustering buds upon a rose-bush in early 
spring, rejoice to intertwine, as if the rude hands of the world 
were never to pluck them asunder, and place them in different 
and foreign bosoms ? Was it not natural enough that she should 
show some sign of sorrow at thus parting with a youthful play¬ 
mate ? 

I labored to persuade myself that this was all; yet, the more 
I reflected upon the matter, the more mysterious and contra¬ 
dictory did it seem. If it were that her emotions were natural 
to her as a long-familiar playmate, why had she been so es¬ 
tranged from me for so many previous and painful months? 
why did she look always so grave, in later days, whenever we 
met ? why so reserved—so different from the confiding girl who 
had played with me from infancy ? why so slow to meet me as 
formerly? why so unwilling to wander with me as before, 
among the secluded paths which our own feet had beaten into 


46 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


confirmed tracks ? why, above all, so much more intimate and 
free with John Hurdis, who had never been her companion in 
childhood, and who, it was the most surprising thing in the world 
to me, should be her companion now?—he coarse, listless, un¬ 
sympathizing ; in his taste low, in his deportment unattractive, 
in his conversation tedious and prosing, in his propensities, if 
not positively vicious, at least far from virtuous or good! 

What had they in common together ? how could they mingle, 
how unite? by what arts had he won her to his wishes? by 
what baser arts had he estranged her from mine ? Of some of 
these, indeed, I had heard. More than once already had I ex¬ 
posed him. His hints and equivoques had, as I thought, recoiled 
only upon his own head; and yet the ties grew and increased 
between them, even as the walls and barriers continued to rise 
and thicken between herself and me. I degraded him, but dis¬ 
dained any longer to strive for her. The busy neighborhood 
soon informed me how idle would be such struggles. They de¬ 
clared her betrothed to John Hurdis, and did not stop at this. 
They went further, and proclaimed her to have been bought 
by his money to see in him those qualities and that superior 
worth which, but for this, she had been slow to discover. 
Should I struggle against his good fortune ? should 1 desire to 
win one whose market value was so readily understood by all ? 
I turned from the contest in disdain; and, wondering at her 
baseness as a matter no less surprising than humiliating, I strove 
to fling her from my thoughts as I would the tainted and offen¬ 
sive weed, which had been, at one time, a pure and chosen 
flower. 

I had not been successful. I could not fling her from my 
thoughts. Night and day she was before me; at all hours, what¬ 
ever were my pursuits, my desires, my associates. Her image 
made the picture in the scene; her intelligence, her mind, the 
grace of her sentiments, the compass and the truth of her 
thoughts, were forced upon me for contemplation, by the obtru¬ 
sive memory, in disparagement of those to which I listened. 
How perfect had she ever before seemed to me in her thoughts 
and sentiments ! How strange that one so correct in her stand¬ 
ards of opinion, should not have strength enough to be the thing 
which she approved! This is the most mortifying conviction 


EVIL MOODS. 


47 


of humanity. We build the temple, but the god dres not in¬ 
habit it, though we solicit him with incense, and brirg our best 
offerings to his altars. 

I reached the dwelling of William Carrington ere I felt that 
my journey was begun. The velocity of my thoughts had made 
me unconscious of that of my motion — nay, had prompted me 
to increase it beyond my ordinary habit. When I alighted, 
my horse was covered with foam. 

“ You have ridden hard,” said Carrington. 

“No ; I think not. I but came from ’Squire Easterby’s.” 

He said no more then, for the family was around; but that 
night, when we retired, our conversation was long, upon various 
subjects; and, in the course of it, I told him all the particulars 
of my rencontre with John Hurdis, and of my parting interview 
with Mary Easterby. He listened with much attention, and 
then spoke abruptly :— 

“You do that girl wrong, Bichard. You are quite too harsh 
to her at times. I have heard and seen you. Your jealousy 
prompts you to language which is ungenerous, to say the least, 
and which you have no right to use. You never told her that 
you loved her—never asked her to love you! What reason 
can you have to complain, either that she is beloved by, or that 
she loves another V’ 

“None! I do not complain.” 

“ You do ! Your actions, your looks, your language, are all 
full of complaint. The show of dissatisfaction — of discontent 
— is complaint, and that, too, of the least manly description 
It savors too much of the sullenness of a whipped school-boy, 
or one denied his holyday, to be manly. Let us have no more 
of it, Richard.” 

“ You speak plainly enough.” 

“I do; and you should thank me for it. I were no friend, 
if I did not. Do not be angry, Richard, that I do so. I have 
your good at heart, and, I think, you have been fighting seri¬ 
ously against it. You think too bitterly of your brother to do 
him justice.” 

“ Speak nothing of him, William.” 

“ I will not say much, for you know I like him quite as little 
as yourself. Still, I do not hate him as you do; and can not 


48 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


agree with you, therefore, as to the propriety of your course 
toward him. You can not fight him as you would a stranger, 
and have done with it.” 

:i I could !—you mistake. I feel that I could fight him with 
even less reluctance than I would a stranger.” 

“ I grant you that your hostility is bitter enough for it, but 
you have too much sense of propriety left to indulge it. You 
can not, and should not, were I by, even if you were yourself 
willing. Have done with him, then; and, as you have already 
separated, let your thoughts maintain as rigid a distance from 
him as your person.” 

“And leave him the field to himself?” 

“ Have you not already done so ? Have you not pronounced 
the field unworthy fighting for ? Pshaw, man! this is but 
wasting valor.” 

I listened gloomily, and in utter silence, as he went on thus:— 

“ But,” he continued, “ I am not so sure, either that the field 
is in his possession, or that it is unworthy. I tell you, you do 
Mary Easterby injustice! I do not think that she loves your 
brother. I doubt that she even likes him. I see no proof of 
it.” 

“Ay, but there is proof enough. You see not, because your 
eyes are elsewhere. But say no more, William; let us drop 
this hateful subject.” 

“ I am afraid your jealous spirit makes it hateful, Richard. 
That girl, Mary, is a treasure too valuable to be given up so 
ightly. By my soul, were I not otherwise bound, I should 
struggle for her myself!” 

“ You!” 

“Yea, even I, William Carrington! Nay, look not so grim 
and gluttonous ! You forget that you renounce the spoil, and 
that I am sworn elsewhere! I would that all others were as 
little in your path as I am!” 

“ And I care not how many crowd the path when I am out 
of it!” was my sullen answer. 

“ Ah, Richard! you were born to muddy the spring you 
drink from. You will pay for this perversity in your nature. 
Be more hopeful—more confiding, man ! Think better of your 
own nature, and of the nature of those around you. It is the 


EVIL MOODS. 


49 


best policy. To look for rascals, is to find rascals; and to be« 
lieve in wrong, is not only to suffer, but to do wrong. For my 
part, I would rather be deceived than doubt;—rather lose, than 
perpetually fear loss;—rather be robbed, than suspect every one 
I meet of roguery!” 

“ I answer you through my experience, William, when I tell 
you that you will pay dearly for your philanthropy. Your faith 
will be rewarded by faithlessness.” 

“ Stay !” he cried — “no more ! You would not impute insin¬ 
cerity to Emmeline Walker?” 

“ No ! surely not.” 

“ Then let the world be false, and play double with me as it 
pleases! She can not! I know her, Dick—I know her! 
She will perish for me as freely, I am sure, as I would for her! 
And shall I doubt, when she is true? Would to heaven, Rich¬ 
ard, you would believe but half so confidently in Mary!” 

“And what use in that?” 

“ Why, then, my life on it, she will believe in you ! I some¬ 
how suspect that you are all wrong in that girl. I doubt that 
these old women, who have no business but their neighbors’ to 
attend to, and for whose benefit a charitable society should be 
formed for knocking them all in the head, have been coining 
and contriving, as usual, to the injury of the poor girl, not to 
speak of your injury. What the devil can she see in that two- 
hundred-pounder, John Hurdis, to fall in love with?” 

“ His money!” 

“No ! by Gr—d, Richard, I’ll not believe it! The girl is too 
humble in her wants, and too content in her poverty, and too 
gentle in her disposition, and too sincere in her nature, to be a 
thing of barter. If she is engaged to John Hurdis, it is a 
d-d bad taste to be sure, of which I should not have sus¬ 

pected her—but it is not money !” 

“ There is no disputing tastes,” I rejoined bitterly; “ let us 
sleep now.” 

“Ah, Richard,-you have an ugly sore on your wrist, which 
you too much love to chafe. You toil for your own torture, man. 
You labor for your own defeat. I would you could rid your¬ 
self of this self troubling nature. It will madden you, yet.” 

“ If it is my nature, William,” I responded, gloomily, “ I 
3 


50 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


must even make the most of the evil, and do as well with it as 
I can.* 

“ Do nothing with it—have done with it! Believe better of 
yourself and others. Think better of Mary Easterby and your 
brother.” 

“ I can not! You ask me to think better of them, yet name 
them together. To have been successful in your wish, you 
should have put them as far asunder as the poles. But say no 
more to me now, William. I am already fevered, and can hear 
nothing, or heed nothing that I hear. I must sleep now.” 

“Well, as you will. But, look out and tell me what sort of 
night we have. I would be sure of a pleasant day to-morrow ” 

He was already in his bed, and I looked out as he desired. 
The stars were few and gave a faint light. The winds were 
rising, and a murmur, almost a moan, came from the black for¬ 
ests in the distance. It seemed like the voice of a spirit, and it 
came to me as if in warning. I turned to my companion, but 
he was already asleep. I could not then sleep, desire it as I 
might. I envied him—not his happiness, but what I then mis¬ 
deemed his insensibility. I confounded the quiet mind, at peace 
with all the world and in itself secure, with the callous and un¬ 
feeling nature. Sleep is only the boon of the mind conscious 
of its own rectitude, and having no jealous doubts of that of its 
fellows. I had no such consciousness and could not sleep. I 
resumed my seat beside the window, and long that night did I 
watch the scene—lovely beyond comparison—before, in utter 
exhaustion, I laid my head upon the pillow. The night in the 
forests of Alabama was never more beautiful than then. There 
was no speck in the heaven—not even the illuminated shadow 
of a cloud — and the murmur of the wind swelling in gusts from 
the close curtaining woods, was a music, rather than a mere 
murmur. In the vexed condition of my mood, the hurricane 
had been more soothing to my rest, and more grateful to my 
senses. 


FAREWELL TO HOME. 


61 


CHAPTER VII. 

FAREWELL TO HOME. 

“ My father blessed me fervently, 

But did not much complain ; 

Yet sorely will my mother sigh, 

Till I come home again.”—B ybon. 

At the dawn of day I rose, and, without waiting breakfast, 
hurried off to the habitation of my father. I should have slept 
at home the last night, but that I could not, under my excited 
state of feeling, have trusted myself to meet John Hurdis. For 
that matter, however, I might have safely ventured; for he, 
probably with a like caution, had also slept from home. It was 
arranged between William Carrington and myself that we were 
to meet at mid-day, at a spot upon the road equidistant from 
both plantations, and then proceed together. The time between 
was devoted to our respective partings—he with Emmeline 
Walker, and I with my father and mother. Could it have been 
avoided with propriety, I should have preferred to leave this 
duty undone. I wished to spare my old mother any unneces¬ 
sary pain. Besides, to look her in the face, and behold her 
grief at the time when I meditated to make our separation a 
final one, would, I well knew, be a trial of my own strength to 
which I was by no means willing to subject it. My sense of 
duty forbade its evasion, however, and I prepared for it with 
as much manful resolve as I could muster. 

My mother’s reproaches were less painful to me than the 
cold and sullen forbearance of my father. Since I had resolved 
to work for him no longer, he did not seem to care very greatly 
where I slept. Not that he was indifferent; but his annoyance 
at my resolution to leave him made him less heedful of my other 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


6^ 

and minor movements; so he said nothing to me on my return* 
Not so my mother. 

“ The last night, Richard, and to sleep fiom home ! Ah, my 
son, you do not think but it may be indeed the very last night! 
You know not what may happen while you are absent. I may 
be in my grave before you return.” 

I was affected; her tears always affected me; and her re¬ 
proaches were always softened by her tears. From childhood 
she had given me to see that she sorrowed even when she pun¬ 
ished me; that she shared in the pain she felt it her duty to 
inflict. How many thousand better sons would there be in the 
world, if their parents punished and rewarded from principle, 
and never from passion or caprice ! I am sure, with a temper¬ 
ament reckless and impatient like mine, I should have grown 
up to be a demon, had not my mother been to me a saint. I 
sought to mollify her. 

“ I did wish to come, mother — I feel the truth of all you say 
—but there was a circumstance —-1 had a reason for staying 
away last night.” 

“ Ay, to be sure,” said my father sullenly; “ it would not 
be Richard Hurdis if he had not a reason for doing what he 
pleased. And pray what was this good and sufficient reason, 
Richard 1” 

“ Excuse me, sir, I would rather not mention it.” 

“Indeed!” was the response; “you are too modest by half, 
Richard. It is something strange that you should at any time 
distrust the force of your own arguments.” 

I replied to the sarcasm calmly — 

“I do not now, sir—I only do not care to give unnecessary 
particulars; and I’m sure that my mother will excuse them. I 
trust that she will believe what I have already said, and not 
require me to declare what I would be glad to withhold.” 

“ Surely, my son,” said the old lady, and my father remained 
silent. A painful interval ensued, in wl ich no one spoke, 
though all were busily engaged in thought. My father broke 
the silence by asking a question which my mother had not 
dared to ask. 

“And at what hour do you go, Richard!” 

“ By twelve, sir. My horse is at feed now, and I have 



FAREWELL TO HOME. 53 

nothing but my saddle-bags to see to. You ha?e the biscuit 
ready, mother, and the venison V* 

“ Yes, my son; I have put up some cheese also, which you 
will not find in the way. Your shirts are all done up, and on 
the bed.” 

It required some effort on my mother’s part to tell me this. I 
thanked her, and my father proceeded : — 

“ You will want your money, Richard, and I will get it for 
you at once. If you desire more than I owe you, say so; I can 
let you have it.” 

“ I thank you, sir, but I shall not need it: my own money 
will be quite enough.” 

He had made the proffer coldly—I replied proudly; and he 
moved away with a due increase of sullenness. The quick in¬ 
stinct of my mother, when my father had gone, informed her 
of the matter which I had been desirous to withhold. 

“ You have seen your brother, Richard V’ 

“ How know you V* 

“ Ask not a mother how she knows the secret of a son’s na¬ 
ture, and how she can read those passions which she has been 
unable to control. You have seen your brother, Richard—you 
have quarrelled with him.” 

I looked down, and my cheeks burned as with fire. She 
came nigh to me and took my hand. 

“ Richard, you are about to leave us : why can you not for¬ 
give him ] Forget your wrongs, if indeed you have had any 
at his hands, and let me no longer have the sorrow of knowing 
that the children, who have been suckled at the same breasts, 
part, and perhaps for ever, as enemies.” 

“Better, mother, that they should part as enemies, than live 
together as such. Your maternal instinct divines not all, mother 
— it falls short of the truth. Hear me speak, and have your 
answer. I not only quarrelled with John Hurdis yesterday, 
but I laid violent hands upon him.” 

“ You did not—you could not!” 

“I must speak the truth, mother—I did.” 

“And struck him]” 

« No, but would have done so, had we not been interrupted.” 

“ Thank God for that! It is well for you, Richard. I should 


54 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


have cursed you with bitterness, had you struck your brother 
with clinched hands.” 

“ I came nigh it, mother. He shook his whip over my head, 
and I dragged him from his horse. I would at that moment 
have trampled him under my feet, but that the voice of Mary 
Easterby arrested me. She came between us. She alone — I 
confess it, mother—she alone kept me from greater violence.” 

“ Heaven bless her! Heaven bless the chance that brought 
her there ! O Richard Hurdis !—my son, my son ! —why will 
you not bear more patiently with John 1 why will you not labor 
for my sake, Richard, if not for his and your own?” 

She trembled as if palsied, while I related to her the adven- 
ture of the preceding day; and though schooled, as women in 
the new countries of the South and West are very apt to be, 
against those emotions which overcome the keener sensibilities 
of the sex in very refined communities, yet I had never seen 
her exhibit so much mental suffering before. She tottered to a 
chair, at the conclusion of her speech, refusing my offer to assist 
her, and, burying her face in her hands, wept without restraint, 
until suddenly aroused to consciousness by the approaching 
footsteps of my father. He was a stern man, and gave little 
heed and no sympathy to such emotions for any cause. He 
would have been more ready to rebuke than to relieve them; 
and that feeling of shame which forbids us to show our sorrows 
to the unsympathizing, made her hasten to clear up her counte¬ 
nance, and remove the traces of her suffering, as he re-entered 
the apartment. 

“ Well, Richard,” he said, throwing down a handkerchief of 
silver dollars—a more profuse collection than is readily to be 
met with in the same region now—“ here is your money; half 
in specie, half in paper. It is all your own; count it for your¬ 
self, and tell me if it’s right.” 

“ I’m satisfied if you have counted it, sir; there’s no use in 
counting it again.” 

“ That’s as you think proper, my son; yet I shall be better 
satisfied if you will icount it.” 

I did so to please him, declared myself content, and put the 
money aside. This done, I proceeded to put up my clothes, 
and get myself in readiness. Such matters took but little time, 



FAREWELL TO HOME. 55 

however: the last words form the chief and most serious busi¬ 
ness in every departure. The fewer of them the better. 

So my father thought. His farewell and benediction were 
equally and almost mortifyingly brief: — 

“ Well, Richard, since it must be so — if you will be obstinate 
— if you will go from where your bread has been so long but¬ 
tered— why, God send you to a land where you won’t feel the 
want of those you leave. I trust, however, to see you return 
before long, and go back to the old business.” 

“ Return I may, father, but not to the old business,” was my 
prompt reply; “ I have had enough of that. If I am able to be 
nothing better than an overseer, and to look after the slaves of 
others, the sooner I am nothing the better.” 

“You speak bravely now, boy,” said my father; “but the 
best bird that ever crowed in the morning has had his tail- 
feathers plucked before evening. Look to yourself, my son ; 
be prudent—keep a bright eye about you as you travel, and 
learn from me what your own fortunes have not taught you yet, 
but what they may soon enough teach you unless you take 
counsel from experience—that there is no chicken so scant of 
flesh, for which there is not some half-starved hawk to whom 
his lean legs yield good picking. You have not much money, 
but enough to lose, and quite enough for a sharper to win. Take 
care of it. Should you find it easily lost, come back, I say, and 
you can always find employment on the old terms.” 

“ I doubt it not, father — I doubt not to find the same terms 
anywhere on my route from Marengo to Yalo-busha. There is 
no lack of employment when the pay is moderate and the work 
plenty.” 

“ I can get hundreds who will take your place, Richard, for 
the same price,” said my father hastily, and with no little dis^ 
quiet 

“And do what I have done, sir?” 

He did not answer the question, but walked to and fro for 
several moments in silence, while I spoke with my mother. 

“And what about your own negroes, Richard?” he again ab¬ 
ruptly addressed me. 

“ Why, sir, you must work them as usual if you have no ob 
jections. I shall have no need of them for the present.” 


66 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


“Yes, but you may want them when the next year’s crop w 
to be put into the ground.” 

“ Hardly, sir—but if I should, I will then charge you noth¬ 
ing for their time. It shall be my loss.” 

“No, that it shall not be, Richard; you shall have what is 
right since you leave it altogether to me. And now, good-by 
I’ll leave you with your mother and go into the woods; you 
can always talk more freely with her, than you are willing to 
talk with me; I don’t know why, unless it is that I have some 

d-d surly ways about me. Tell her if you want anything 

from me, or if I can do anything for you, don’t spare your 
speech—let her know it, and if it’s to be done at all, I’ll do it. 
I won’t palaver with you about my love and all that soft stuff, 
but I do love you, Richard, as a man and no sneak. Good-by, 
boy—good-by and take care of yourself.” 

Thus, after his own rough fashion, my father spoke his part 
ing. A fountain of good feeling was warm and playing at his 
heart, though it seemed stolid and impenetrable as the rocky 
surface that shut it in. He was cold, and phlegmatic in his 
manner only. One hurried embrace was taken, and seizing his 
staff, he disappeared in another instant from my sight. The 
soul of my mother seemed to expand at his departure. His 
presence restrained her ; and with more than woman’s strength, 
she kept down, while under the inspection of his stern and 
piercing eye, all of the warmth and tenderness of woman—of 
a mother. 

“My son, my son, you leave me, you leave me doubly 
unhappy—unhappy as you leave me and perhaps for ever— 
unhappy as you leave me with a deadly enmity raging in 
your breast against your brother. Gould you forget this 
enmity — could you forgive him before you go, I should be 
half-reconciled to your departure. I could bear to look for 
you daily and to find you not — to call for you hourly, and 
to have no answer—to dream of your coming, and wake only 
to desire to dream again. Oan you not forgive him, Richard ? 
Tell me that you will. I pray you, my son, to grant me this, 
as a gift and a blessing to myself. I will pray Heaven for 
all gifts upon you in return. Think, my son, should death 
come among us—should one of us be taken during the time 



FAREWELL TO HOME. 


you think to be gone — how dreadful to think of the final separ¬ 
ation without peace being made between us. Let there be 
peace, my son. Dismiss your enmity to John. You know not 
that he has wronged you—you know not that he has used any 
improper arts with Ma*y—but if he has, my son—admitting 
that he has, still I pray you to forgive him. Wherefore should 
you not forgive him 1 Of what use to cherish anger ? You can 
not contend with him in violence; you must not, you dare not, 
as you value a mother’s blessing, as you dread a mother’s curse. 
Such violence would not avail to do you justice; it could not 
give you what you have lost. To maintain wrath is to maintain 
a curse that will devour all your substance and lastly devour 
yourself. Bless your poor mother, Richard, and take her 
blessing in return. Grant her prayer, and all her prayers will 
go along with you for ever.” 

“ Mother, bless me, for I do forgive him.” 

Such were my spontaneous words. They came from my 
uninstructed, untutored impulse, and at the moment when I 
uttered them, I believed fervently, that they came from the 
bottom of my heart. I fear that I deceived myself. I felt 
afterward, as if I had not forgiven, and could not forgive him. 
But when I spoke, I thought I had, and could not have spoken 
otherwise. Her own voluminous and passionate appeal, had 
overcome me, and her impulse bore mine along with it. I may 
have deceived her, but I as certainly deceived myself. Be it 
so. The error was a pious one, and made her happy; as happy, 
at least, as, at that moment, she could well be. 

I need not dwell upon our parting. It was one of mixed 
pain and pleasure. It grieved me to see how much she suffered, 
yet it gratified my pride to find how greatly I was beloved. 
Once taught how delicious was the one feeling of pleasure which 
such a trial brought with it, I feel—I fear—that I could freely 
have inflicted the pain a second time, if sure to enjoy the pleas¬ 
ure. Such is our selfishness. Our vanity still subdues our 
sufferings, and our pride derives its most grateful aliment from 
that which is, or should be, our grief. 

In an hour I was on the road with my companion, and far 
out of hearing of my mother’s voice. And yet—I heard it. 

3 * 


o8 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

ROADSIDE PROGRESS. 

“But with the word, the time will bring on summer, 

When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns, 

And be as sweet as sharp. We must away; 

Our wagon is prepared, and time revives us.”— Shakspere. 

I heard it then—in long days after, when she was speech* 
less, I heard it—I still hear it—I shall never lose its lingering 
memories. They cling to me with a mother’s love; the purest, 
the least selfish of all human affections. The love of woman is 
a wondrous thing, but the love of a mother is yet more wonder¬ 
ful. What is there like it in nature ? What tie is there so 
close, so warm, so uncalculating in its compliances, so unmeas¬ 
ured in its sacrifices, so enduring in its tenacious tenderness ? 
It may accompany the feeble intellect, the coarse form, the 
equivocal virtue; but, in itself, it is neither feeble, nor coarse, 
nor equivocal. It refines vulgarity, it softens violence, it quali¬ 
fies and chastens, even when it may not redeem, all other vices. 
I am convinced that, of all human affections, it is endowed with 
the greatest longevity; it is the most hardy, if not the most 
acute in its vitality. Talk of the love of young people for one 
another; it is not to be spoken of in the same breath; nothing 
can be more inferior. Such love is of the earth, earthy — a 
passion born of tumults, wild and fearful as the storm, and yet 
more capricious. An idol of clay—a miserable pottery, the 
work, which in a fit of frenzied devotion we make with our 
own hands, and in another, and not more mad fit of brutality, 
we trample to pieces with our feet. Appetite is the fiend that 
degrades every passion, and the flame, of which it is a part, 
must always end in smoke and ashes. 

Thus I mused when I encountered my friend and companion. 


ROADSIDE PROGRESS. 


59 


He was in fine spirits; overjoyed with the novelty of the situa¬ 
tion in which he found himself. For the first time in his life, 
lie was a traveller, and his nature was one of those that corre¬ 
spond with the generous season, and keep happy in spite of the 
cloudy. His soul began to expand with the momently increas¬ 
ing consciousness of its freedom; and when he described to me 
the sweet hour which had just terminated, and which he had 
employed for his parting with Emmeline Walker, he absolutely 
shouted. His separation from liis former home, his relatives, 
and the woman whom lie loved, was very different from mine; 
and his detail of liis own feelings, and his joys and hopes, only 
added bitterness to mine. Going and coming, the world smiled 
upon him. Backward and forward, an inviting prospect met 
his eyes. He saw no sun go down in night. He was conscious 
of no evening not hallowed by a moon. Happy world, where 
the blessed and blessing heart moves the otherwise disobedient 
and froward elements as it pleases, banishes the clouds, sus¬ 
pends the storm, and lighting up the sky without, from the 
heaven within, casts for ever more upon it, the smile of a satis¬ 
fied and indulgent Deity. The disappointed demon in my soul 
actually chafed to hear the self-gratulations of the delighted 
God in his. 

And yet what had been my reflections but a moment before ! 
To what conclusion had I come 1 ? In what—supposing me to 
have been right in that conclusion — in what respect was his 
fortune better than mine? In what respect was it half so 
good ? The love of the sexes I had proclaimed worthless and 
vulnerable; that of a mother beyond all price. I had a mother, 
a fond, unselfish mother, and Carrington was an orphan. He 
had only that love, which I professed to think so valueless. 
But did I seriously think so ? What an absurdity. The love 
of the young for each other is a property of the coming time, 
and it is the coming time for which the young must live. That 
of a mother is a love of the past, or, at the best, of the present 
only. It can not, in the ordinary term of human allotment, 
last us while we live. It is not meant that it should, and the 
Providence that beneficently cares for us always, even when we 
are least careful of ourself, has wisely prompted us to seek and 
desire that lev's which may. It was an instinct that made me 


60 


RICHARD HURDIS 


envy my companion, in spite of my own philosophy. I would 
hare given up the love of a thousand mothers, to he secure of 
that of Mary Easterby. 

I strove to banish thought, by referring to the most ordinary 
matters of conversation; matters, indeed, about which I did not 
care a straw. In this way, I strove, not only to dispel my own 
topics of grief, but to silence those of triumph in my companion. 
What did I care to hear of Emmeline Walker, and how she 
loved him, and how she cheered him, with a manly spirit, on a 
journey from which other and perhaps finer damsels would have 
sought to discourage their lovers; and how she bade him return 
as soon as he had bought the lands on which they were to settle 
all their future lives ? This was talk no less provoking than 
unnecessary; and it was not without some difficulty that I 
could divert him from it. And even then my success was only 
partial. He was for ever getting back to it again. 

“And what route are we to take, William?” I demanded, 
when we had reached a point of fork in the road. “ You spoke 
yesterday of going up by way of Tuscaloosa. But if you can 
do without taking that route, it will be the better; it is forty 
miles out of your road to Columbus, and unless you have some 
business there, I see no reason to go that way. The town is 
new, and has nothing worth seeing in it.” 

“ It is not that I go for, Richard. I have some money owing 
me in that neighborhood. There is one Matthew Webber, who 
lives a few miles on the road from Tuscaloosa to Columbus, who 
owes me a hundred and thirty dollars for a mule I sold him last 
spring was a year. I have his note. The money was due five 
months ago, and it needs looking after. I don’t know much of 
Webber, and think very little of him. The sooner I get the 
money out of his hands, the better, and the better chance then 
of his paying me. I’m afraid, if he stands off much longer, he’ll 
stand off for ever, and I may then whistle for my money.” 

“ You are wise; and forty miles is no great difference to those 
who have good horses. So speed on to the right. It’s a rascal¬ 
ly road, let me tell you. I have ridden it before.” 

“ I know nothing about it; but, thank the stars, I care aa 
little. When a man’s heart is in the right place, sound and 
satisfied, it matters not much what is the condition of the road 


ROADSIDE PROGRESS. 61 

he travels. One bright smile, one press of the hand from Em¬ 
meline, makes all smooth, however rough before.” 

I struck the spurs into my horse’s flanks impatiently. He 
saw the movement, and, possibly, the expression of my coun¬ 
tenance, and laughed aloud. 

“ Ah, Dick, you take things to heart too seriously. What if 
you are unfortunate, man ? You are not the first—you will not 
be the last. You are in a good and godly company. Console 
yourself, man, by taking it for granted that Mary has been less 
wise than you thought her, and that you have made a more for¬ 
tunate escape that you can well appreciate at present.” 

“ Pshaw ! I think not of it,” was my peevish reply. “ Let us 
talk of other matters.” 

“Agreed. But what other matters to talk of that shall please 
you, Richard, is beyond my knowledge now. My happiness, 
at this moment, will be sure to enter into everything I say ; as 
I certainly can think of no more agreeable subject. I shall 
speak of Emmeline, and that will remind you of Mary, however 
different may be their respective treatment of us. If I talk of 
the land I am looking for, and resolve to settle on, you will be 
gin to brood over the solitary life in store for you; unless, as 1 
think very likely, it will not be long before you console your¬ 
self with some Mississippi maiden, who will save you the trouble 
of looking for lands, and the cost of paying for them, by bring¬ 
ing you a comfortable portion.” 

“ I am not mercenary, William,” was my answer, somewhat 
more temperately spoken than usual. I had discovered the 
weakness of which I had been guilty, and at once resolved that, 
though I was not successful, I would not be surly. Indeed, a 
playful commentary, which Carrington uttered about my savage 
demeanor, brought me back to my senses. It was in reply to 
6ome uncivil sarcasm of mine. 

“Hush, man! hush! Because you have been buffeted, you 
need not be a bear! Let the blows profit you as they do a 
beefsteak, and though I would not have your tenderness in¬ 
creased by the process, Heaven keep you from any increase of 
toughness ! Forgive me, my dear fellow, for being so happy » 
1 know well enough that, to the miserable, the good humor of 
one’s neighbors is sheer impertinence. But I am more than a 


62 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


neighbor to you, Dick Hurdis! I am a friend; and you must 
forgive mine !” 

“Ay, that I do, William!” I answered frankly, and ‘aking 
his hand while I spoke. “ I will not only forgive, but to'srate 
your happiness. You shall see that I will; and to prove *t to 
you, I beg that you will talk on, and only talk of that. W ’ at 
were Emmeline’s last words V* 

“ Come back soon.” 

“ And she smiled when she said them V* 

“ Ay; that was the strangest thing of all, Richard. She did 
smile when we parted, and neither then nor at any time since I 
have known her, have I ever seen her shed a tear. I almost 
bleated like a calf.” 

** She is a strong woman, high-spirited, lirm, and full of char¬ 
acter. She does not feel the less for not showing her feelings. 
Still water runs deep.” 

“A suspicious proverb, Richard! One that has too many 
meanings to be complimentary. Nevertheless, you are quite 
right. Emmeline is a still girl—thinks more than she says 
—feels more than she will acknowledge; and loves the more 
earnestly that she does not proclaim it from the pine-tops. 
Your professing women, like your professing men, are all puff 
and plaster. They know their own deficiencies, and in the in¬ 
ventory which they make of their virtues, take good care to 
set them down as the very chattels in possession. Like church- 
builders and church-goers, they seek to make up for the substan¬ 
tial, which they have not, by the shows and symbols which be¬ 
long to them; and, truth to say, such is the universality of this 
habit, that, now-a-days, no one looks further than the surplice, 
and the color of the cloth. Forms are virtues, and names things 
You remember the German story, where the devil bought the 
man’s shadow in preference to his soul. Heaven help mankind, 
were the devil disposed to pursue his trade! What universal 
bankruptcy among men would follow the loss of their shadows! 
How the church would groan — the pillars crumble and fall— 
the surplice and the black coat shrivel and stink! What a loss 
would there be of demure looks and saintly faces—of groaning 
and psalm-singing tradesmen—men who seek to make a broth¬ 
erhood and sisterhood in order to carry their calicoes to a good 


ROADSIDE PROGRESS. 


63 


market! Well, thank heaven! the country to which we are 
now bendiig our steps, Richard, is not yet overrun by these 
saintly hypocrites. Time will come, I doubt not, when we 
shall have them where the Choctaws now hunt and pow-wow, 
making long prayers, and longer sermons, and concluding, as 
usual, with a collection.” 

“ It may be that the country is quite as full of rascals, Wil¬ 
liam, though it may lack hypocrites. We have hold villains in 
place of cunning ones, and whether we fare better or worse than 
the city in having them, is a question not easily decided. We 
shall have need of all our caution in our travelling. I have no 
fear of the Indians while they are sober; and it will not be hard 
to avoid them when they are drunk; but we have heard too 
many stories of outlaws and robbery on the borders of the na¬ 
tion and within it, where the villains were not savages, to ren¬ 
der necessary any particular counsel to either of us now.” 

“ I don’t believe the half of what I hear of these squatters. 
No doubt, they are a rough enough set of people; but what of 
that 1 Let them but give us fair play, and, man to man, I think, 
we need not fear them. I know that you can fling a stout fel¬ 
low with a single flirt, and I have a bit of muscle here that has 
not often met its match. I fear not your bold boys—let them 
come. It is your city sneaks, Richard, that I don’t like; your 
saintly, demure, sly rogues, that pray for you at the supper- 
table, and pick your pocket when you sleep.” 

Carrington extended his brawny and well-shaped arm as he 
spoke, giving it a glance of unconcealed admiration. He did 
not overrate his own powers; but, in speaking of rogues, and 
referring to their practices, it was no part of my notion that 
they would ever give us fair play. I told him that, and by a 
natural transition, passed to another topic of no little importance 
on the subject. 

" I don’t fear anything from open violence, William,” wa9 
my reply. “You know enough of me for that; but men whc 
aim to rob, will always prefer to prosecute their schemes by art 
rather than boldness. Valor does not often enter into the com¬ 
position of a rogue. Now, I have enough money about me to 
tempt a rascal, and more than I am willing to surrender to one. 
You have, probably, brought a large sum with you also.” 


G4 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


“All I have; three thousand dollars, more or less, in United 
States bank bills, some few Alabama, and Georgia, all passable 
at the land-office,” was his reply. 

“ The greater need of caution. There are land-pirates on 
the Black Warrior, and Alabama, who are said to be worse by 
far than the pirates of the gulf. Look to it, William, and keep 
your money out of sight. The more poor your pretensions, the 
more certain your safety. Show no more money than you wish 
to spend.” 

“ I will not, Richard ; and yet I should have no objection to 
put my money down upon the butt-end of a log, and take a hug 
with any pirate of them all who should have it.” 

“ More brave than wise,” was my reply. “ But let us have 
no more of this; there are travellers before and behind us. 
Let our circumspection begin from this moment. We have both 
need of it, being at greater risk, as we bring, like a terrapin, 
our homes and all that is in them, on our backs. You have too 
much money about you. In that, William, you were anything 
but wise. I wish I had counselled you. You could have en¬ 
tered the lands with one fourth of it. But it is too late now to 
repent. You must be watchful only. I am not at so great a 
risk as you, but I have quite enough to tempt a Red river gam¬ 
bler to his own ruin and mine.” 

“I shall heed you,” replied my companion, buttoning his 
coat, and turning the butt of a pistol in his bosom, making it 
more convenient to his grasp. “ But who are these travellers ? 
Settlers from North Carolina, I reckon. Poor devils from Tar 
river as usual, going, they know not where, to get, they know 
not what.” 

“ They can not go to a poorer region, nor fare much worse than 
they have done, if your guess be right.” 

“ I’ll lay a picayune upon it. They look sleepy and poor 
enough to have lived at Tar river a thousand yeai s But, wo 
3hall see ” 


THE EMIGRANTS. 


65 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE EMIGRANTS. 

4 An aged man whose head some seventy years 
Had snowed on freely, led the caravan ;— 

His sons and sons’ sons, and their families, 

Tall youths and sunny maidens — a glad group 
That glowed in generous blood, and had no care, 

And little thought of the future, followed him:— 

Some perched on gallant steeds — others more slow, 

The infants and the matrons of the flock, 

In coach and jersey — but all moving on 
To the new land of promise, full of dreams 
Of western riches, Mississippi mad 1” 

By this time we had overtaken the cavalcade, and sure 
enough, it turned out as my companion had conjectured. The 
wanderers were from one of the poorest parts of North Caroli¬ 
na, bent to better their condition in the western valleys, “ full 
of dreams,” and as one of our southern poets, whom I quote 
above, energetically expresses it, “Mississippi mad.” They 
consisted of several families, three or four in number, all from 
the same neighborhood, who were thus making a colonizing 
expedition of it; and as they had all along formed a little 
world to themselves before, now resolving with a spirit not less 
wise than amiable, to preserve the same social and domestic 
relations in the new regions to which they bent their steps. 
They thus carry with them the morals and the manners to 
which they have been accustomed, and find a natural home ac¬ 
cordingly wherever they go. But even this arrangement does not 
supply their loss, and the social moralist may well apprehend 
the deterioration of the graces of society in every desertion by 
a people of their ancient homes. Though men may lose noth¬ 
ing of their fecundity by wandering, and in emigration to the 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


6(3 

west from a sterile region like North Carolina, most commonly, 
gain in tlieir worldly goods, their losses are yet incomputable. 
The delicacies of society are most usually thrust from the sight 
of the pioneers ; the nicer harmonies of the moral world become 
impaired; the sweeter cords of affection are undone or rudely 
snapped asunder, and a rude indifference to the claims of one’s 
fellow, must follow every breaking up of the old and station¬ 
ary abodes. The wandering habits of our people are the great 
obstacles to their perfect civilization. These habits are encour¬ 
aged by the cheapness of our public lands, and their constant 
exposure for sale. The morals not less than the manners of 
our people are diseased by the license of the wilderness ; and the 
remoteness of the white settler from his former associates approxi¬ 
mate him to the savage feebleness of the Indian, who has been 
subjugated and expelled simply because of his inferior morality. 

We joined the wayfarers, and accommodating our pace to the 
slow and weary movement of their cavalcade, kept with them 
long enough to answer and to ask a hundred questions. They 
were a simple and hardy people, looking poor, but proud; and 
though evidently neither enterprising nor adventurous, yet, 
once abroad and in the tempest, sufficiently strong and bold to 
endure and to defy its buffeting. There was a venerable grand¬ 
father of the flock, one of the finest heads I ever looked upon, 
who mingled the smiling elasticity of youth, with the garrulity 
of age. He spoke as sanguinely of his future prospects in Mis¬ 
sissippi, as if he were only now about to commence the world; 
and while he spoke, his eyes danced and twinkled with delight, 
and his laugh rang through the forests, with such fervor and 
life, that an irrepressible sympathy made me laugh with him, 
and forget, for a moment, my own dull misgivings, and heavy 
thoughts. His mirth was infectious, and old and young shared 
in it, as most probably they had done from childhood. We 
ro le off, leaving them in a perfect gale of delighted merriment, 
having their best wishes, and giving them ours in return. 

To one ignorant of the great West; to the dweller in the 
Eastern cities—accustomed only to the dull, unbroken routine 
of a life of trade, which is at best only disturbed by some splen¬ 
did forgery, or a methodical and fortunate bankruptcy, which 
makes the bankrupt rich at the expense of* a cloud of confiding 


THE EMIGRANTS. 


67 


creditors—the variety, and the vicissitudes of forest life, form 
a series of interesting romances. The very love of change, 
which is the marked characteristic of our people in reference 
to their habitations, is productive of constant adventures, to 
hear which, the ears tingle, and the pulses bound. The mere 
movement of the self-expatriated wanderer, with his motley 
caravan, large or small, as it winds its way through the circuit¬ 
ous forests, or along the buffalo tracks, in the level prairies, is 
picturesque in the last degree. And this picturesqueness is not 
a whit diminished by the something of melancholy, which a 
knowledge of the facts provokes necessarily in the mind of the 
observer. Not that they who compose the cavalcade, whether 
masters or men, women or children, are troubled with any of 
this feeling. On the contrary, they are usually joyful and light 
spirited enough. It is in the thoughts and fancies of the spec 
tator only that gloom hangs over the path, and clouds the for¬ 
tune of the wayfarer. He thinks of the deserted country which 
they have left—of the cottage overgrown with weeds — of the 
young children carried into wildernesses, where no sabbath 
bell invites them to a decorous service—where the schoolmas 
ter is never seen, or is of little value — and where, if fortune 
deigns to smile upon the desires of the cultivator, the wealth which 
he gains, descends to a race, uninformed in any of its duties, and, 
therefore, wholly ignorant of its proper uses. Wealth, under 
such circumstances, becomes a curse, and the miserable possessor 
a victim to the saddest error that ever tempted the weak mind, 
and derided it in its overthrow. 

These thoughts force themselves upon you as you behold the 
patient industry of the travellers while they slowly make their 
way through the tedious forests. Their equipage, their arrange¬ 
ments, the evidence of the wear and tear inevitable in a long 
journey, and conspicuous in shattered vehicles and bandaged 
harness, the string of wagons of all shapes, sorts, and sizes, the 
mud-bespattered carriages, once finely varnished, in which the 
lady and the children ride, the fiery horse of the son in his 
teens, the chunky poney of the no less daring hoy, the wrig¬ 
gling jersey—the go-cart with the little negro children; and 
the noisy whoop of blacks of both sexes, mounted and afoot, 
and taking it by turns to ride or walk—however cheering ali 


68 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


these may seem at a first sight, as a novelty, removing the 
sense of loneliness which you may have felt before, can not but 
impress upon you a sentiment of gloom, which will not be les¬ 
sened as you watch their progress. Their very light-hearted - 
ness—so full of hope and confidence as it denotes them to be, 
is a subject of doubtful reflection. Will their hopes be confirm¬ 
ed ? Will the dreams so seducing to them now, be realized ? 
Will they find the fortune which tempted them to new homes 
and new dangers? Will they even be secure of health, with¬ 
out which wealth is a woful mockery. These are doubts which 
may well make the thoughtful sad, and the doubtful despondent. 

And yet the wayfarers themselves feel but little of this. 
Their daily progress, and the new objects of interest that now 
and then present themselves, divert them from troublous thoughts 
The lands, the woods, the waters, that attract the eye of the 
planter on every side, serve to fix his attention and keep it in 
constant exercise and play. They travel slowly, but twelve or 
fifteen miles a day, and by night they encamp upon the road¬ 
side, hew down a tree, clear the brush, and build up fires that 
illuminate the woods for miles round. Strange, fantastic forms 
dance in the mazes which the light makes among the receding 
trees; and the boisterous song of the woodman, and the un¬ 
measured laugh of the negro, as he rends the bacon with liis 
teeth and fingers, and hearkens to the ready joke of his com¬ 
panion the while, convey no faint idea of those German stories 
of the wild men, or demons of the Hartz Mountains or the 
Black Forest, which we can not but admire, however uncouth, 
grotesque, and disproportioned, for their felicitous and playful 
ingenuity. The watch-dog takes his place under the wagon 
by night, sometimes he sleeps within it, and upon the baggage. 
The men crouch by the fire, while rude and temporary couches 
of bush and blanket are made for the women and the children 
of the party. These arrangements necessarily undergo changes 
according to circumstances. The summer tempests compel a 
more compact disposition of their force; the sudden storm by 
night drives the more weak and timid to the deserted house, 
or if there be none in the neighborhood, to the bottom of the 
wagon, where they are sheltered by skins or blankets, with 
both of which the accustomed traveller is usually w?ll provided 


THE EMIGRANTS. 


69 


Before the dawn of day they are prepared to renew their jour¬ 
ney, with such thoughts as their dreams or their slumbers of 
the night have rendered most active in their imaginations. The 
old are usually thoughtful when they rise, the young hopeful. 
Some few of both are sad, as an obtrusive memory haunts them 
with threatening or imploring shadows. Others again, and no! 
the smaller number, cheerily set forth singing, the first day be¬ 
ing safely passed—singing some country ditty; and when 
they meet with travellers like themselves—an event, which, 
in our western woods, may be likened to a “ sail” at sea— 
cracking with them some hearty joke upon their prospects, 
trim and caparison, with a glee that would startle the nerves 
and astound the measured sensibilities of the quiet occupant of 
more civilized abodes. 

The negroes are particularly famous for the light-heartedness 
of their habit while journeying in this manner. You will some¬ 
times see ten or twenty *of them surrounding a jersey wagon, 
listening to the rude harmony of some cracked violin in the 
hands of the driver, and dancing and singing as they keep time 
with his instrument, and pace with his horse. The grin of 
their mouths, the white teeth shining through the glossy black 
of their faces, is absolutely irresistible; while he, perched, as I 
have often seen him, upon the fore-seat, the reins loosely flung 
over his left arm, in the hand of which is grasped the soiled and 
shattered instrument, the seams and cracks of which are care¬ 
fully stopped with tar or pine-gum; while the bow in his right 
hand scrapes away unmercifully until it extorts from the reluc¬ 
tant strings the quantity of melody necessary to satisfy the ama¬ 
teur who performs, or the self-taught connoiseurs who hearken 
to and depend upon him. 

Sometimes the whites hover nigh, not less delighted than 
their slaves, and partaking, though with a less ostentatious show 
of interest, in the pleasure and excitement which such an exhi¬ 
bition, under such circumstances, is so well calculated to inspire. 
Sometimes the grinning Momus of the group is something more 
than a mere mechanician, and adds the interest of improvisation 
to the doubtful music of his violin. I have heard one of these 
performers sing, as he went, verses suited to the scene around 
him, in very tolerable rhythm, which were evidently flung off 


70 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


as he went. The verses were full of a rough humor which is 
characteristic of all inferior people. In these he satirized his 
companions without mercy; ridiculed the country which he left, 
no less than that to which he was going; and did not spare his 
own master, whom he compared to a squirrel that had lived 
upon good corn so long, that he now hungered for bad, in his 
desire of change. This was a native figure, by which his fruit¬ 
less and unprofitable discontent with what was good in his pre¬ 
vious condition was clearly bodied forth. The worthy owner 
heard the satire, with which he was not less pleased than the 
other hearers, who were so much less interested in it. Enough 
of episode. We will now resume our progress. 


GOOD AND EVIL SPIRITS 


71 


CHAPTER X. 

GOOD AND EVIL SPIRITS. 

Ulyates. Had she no lover there 
That wails her absence? 

Troilua . O, sir, to such as, boasting, show their scars, 

A mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord? 

She was beloved—she loved — she is, and doth — 

But still, sweet love is food for fortune’s tooth. 

Troilus and Cressida. 

That night we slept at a miserable hovel, consisting of but 
one apartment, into which the whole family, husband, wife, 
three children, and ourselves, were oddly clustered together. 
The house was of logs, and the rain, which fell in torrents be 
fore we sought shelter in so foul a sty, came through upon the 
trundle-bed in which we strove to sleep. Still we had no occa¬ 
sion for discontent. The poor wretches who kept the hovel 
gave us the best they had. A supper of bacon, eggs, and hoe- 
cake, somewhat consoled us for the doubtful prospect in our 
eyes ; and our consolation was complete, when, at rising in the 
morning, we found that the storm had passed over, and we were 
in safety to depart. We had not been so sure that such would 
be the case at retiring for the night. Our host had quite a cut¬ 
throat and hang-dog expression, and we lay with dirk and pis¬ 
tol at hand, ready for the last emergencies. Fortunately, we 
had no need to use them; and, bestowing a couple of dollars 
upon the children, for their parents refused all pay, we sallied 
forth upon our journey. That night we arrived at Tuscaloosa, 
a town now of considerable size, of increasing prosperity and 
population, but, at the time of our visit, but little more than 
opened in the woods. Here we took lodgings at the only hotel 
in the place, and were assigned a room in common with two 


72 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


other persons. To this arrangement we objected in vain. The 
chambers were too few and the crowd too great to permit a tav¬ 
ern-keeper to tolerate any unnecessary fastidiousness on the part 
of his guests. 

Here let me pause in the narrative of my own progress, and 
retrace for a brief period my steps. Let me unfold the do¬ 
ings of others, necessarily connected with my own, which are 
proper to be made known to the reader in this place, though 
only known to me long after their occurrence. The parting 
with my brother will be remembered. It will be recollected, 
that, when Mary Easterby came between us after I had dragged 
him from his horse, and prevented strife, and possibly blood¬ 
shed, that he left us together, and proceeded to the habitation 
of her parents. There, with a heart full of bitterness toward 
me, and a mind crowded with conflicting and angry emotions, 
he yet contrived effectually to conceal from observation both 
the struggle and the bitterness. His words were free, easy, 
well arranged, and good-natured, as usual, to all around; and, 
when Mary Easterby returned to the cottage after I had left 
her, she started with surprise to see how effectually he could 
hide the traces of that fierce and unnatural strife in which, but 
a little while before, he had been so earnestly engaged. The 
unlooked-for ease with which this was done, effectually startled 
and pained her. By what mastery of his emotions had this 
been done, and what was the nature of that spirit which could 
so hermetically seal its anger, its hate, its human and perhaps 
holiest passions ? She saw him in a new light. Heretofore she 
had regarded him but in one aspect—as a man more solicitous 
of his ease than of his reputation, good-natured in the extreme, 
too slothful to be irritable, too fond of repose and good living 
to harbor secret hostilities. If her opinion on this subject did 
not suffer change, it at least called for prompt revision and re¬ 
examination under the new light in which it appeared, and 
which now served only to dazzle and confound her. The won¬ 
der increased as the evening advanced. He was even humor¬ 
ous and witty in his easy volubility; and, but for the annoyance 
which she naturally felt at what seemed to her his unnatural 
low of spirits, she would have been constrained to confess that 
ever before had he seemed so positively agreeable. All his 


GOOD AND EVIL 8PIRITS. 


73 


resources of reading and observation were brought into requi¬ 
sition, and he placed them before the company with so much 
order, clearness, and facility, that she was disposed to give him 
credit for much more capacity of nature and acquisition than 
she had ever esteemed him to possess before. He was acting a 
part, and, had she not been troubled with misgivings to this 
effect, he might have acted it successfully. But he overshot his 
mark. He had not the art, the result only of frequen* practice, 
to conceal the art which he employed. His purpose was to 
seem amiable—to be above the passions which governed me — 
and to possess the forbearance which could forgive them, even 
where he himself had been in a measure their victim. He erred 
in seeming, not only above their control, but free from their an¬ 
noyance. Had he been slightly grave during the evening, had 
he seemed to strive at cheerfulness, and at a forgetfulness of 
that which could not but be unpleasant to any brother, he had 
been far more successful with Mary Easterby. Her natural 
good sense revolted at the perfect mastery which he possessed 
over his emotions. Such a man might well become an Iago, 
having a power, such as he certainly exhibited, “ to smile and 
smile, and be,” if not a villain, one at least wholly insensible to 
those proper sentiments and sorrows which belonged to his sit¬ 
uation under existing circumstances. Little did my brother 
conjecture the thoughts passing through her mind as he thus 
played his part. What would I have given to know them! 
how many pangs, doubts, and sorrows, would have been spared 
me! what time had I not saved — what affections had I not 
spared and sheltered! But this is idle. 

John Hurdis lingered late that night for an opportunity which 
was at length given him. * Mary and himself were left alone to¬ 
gether ; and he proceeded to do that which, with the precipitate 
apprehensions of a jealous lover, I had long bef,: e supposed to 
have been over. Either emboldened by the belief that my rash 
conduct had sufficiently offended the maiden, and that he had 
properly prepared the way for his declaration — or, possibly, 
somewhat anxious lest, in my parting interview, I had poured 
out desperately those emotions which I had with undue timidity 
hopelessly and long locked up, and anxious to know the result, 
he resolved to close a pursuit which he had hitherto conducted 

4 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


M 

with no less art than perseverance. John Hurdis was a vain 
man, and confident of his position; and yet he did not approach 
that calm and high-minded girl without some trepidation, His 
first overture began with a reference to the conflict which she 
had so happily interrupted: — 

“Mary, you have this day witnessed that which I should 
willingly have kept for ever from your knowledge. You have 
seen the strife of brother with brother; you have beheld a vio¬ 
lence shocking to humanity, and, if not ending like that of the 
first murderer, one which, but for your timely coming, might 
have had, for one or both of us, a no less fatal termination. I 
hope, Mary, you do me the justice to believe that I was not to 
blame in this quarrel.” 

He drew his chair nigher to hers, as he thus spoke, and 
waited for her answer with no little solicitude. She hesitated. 
How could she else than hesitate, when an assenting answer 
sanctioned the address, the sincerity of which she seriously 
questioned 1 

“ I know not what to say, Mr. Hurdis,” was her reply. “ I 
saw not enough of the strife of which you speak to pass judg¬ 
ment upon it. I will not pretend to say who began it; I would 
rather not speak on the subject at all.” 

“Yet he — Richard Hurdis — he spoke of it to you V ’ he re¬ 
plied suspiciously. 

“No, I spoke of it to him, rather,” was the fearless answer. 
“ In the first moment of my surprise and terror, Mr. Hurdis, I 
spoke to Richard—to your brother — about his rashness; and 
yet, though I spoke, I know not truly what I said. I was anx¬ 
ious— I was alarmed.” 

“Yet you know that it was his rashness, Mary, that provoked 
the affair,” he said quickly. 

“ I know that Richard is rash, constitutionally rash, John,” 
she replied gravely. “ Yet I will not pretend to say, nor am I 
willing to think, that the provocation came entirely from him.” 

“ But you saw his violence only, Mary.” 

“ Yes, that is true; but did his violence come of itself, John '! 
Said you nothing ? did you nothing to provoke him to that vio¬ 
lence ? was there no vexing word ? was there no cause of strife, 
well known before, between you ? I am sure that there must 


GOOD AND EVIL SPIRITS. 


75 


have been, John, and I leave it to your candor to say if there 
were not. I have known Richard long—we were children to¬ 
gether—and I can not think that, in sheer wantonness, and 
without provocation, he could do what I this day beheld.” 

A faint yet bitter smile passed over his lips as he replied :— 

“And do you think, Mary—is it possible that you, a lady, 
one brought up to regard violence with terror, and brutality 
with disgust — is it possible that you can justify a resort to 
blows for a provocation given in words ?” 

The cheek of the maiden crimsoned beneath the tacit re¬ 
proach ; but she replied without shame :— 

“ God forbid! I do not; blows are brutal, and violence de¬ 
grading to humanity in my eyes! But though I find no sane 
tion for the error of Richard, I am not so sure that you have 
your justification in his violence for every provocation of which 
you may have been guilty. Your brother is full of impulse, 
quick, and irritable. You know his nature well. Did you 
scruple to offend it? Did you not offend it? I ask you in 
honor, John Hurdis, since you have invited me to speak, was 
there not some previous cause of strife between you which pro¬ 
voked, if it did not justify, your brother in his violence ?” 

“It may be—nay, there was, Mary! I confers it. And 
would you know the cause, Mary ? Nay, you must; it is of 
that I would speak! Will you hear me?” 

“ Freely, John!” was the ready and more indulgent reply. 
“If the cause be known, the remedy can not be far off, John, 
if we have the will to apply it.” 

He smiled at what he considered the aptness of the reply. 
He drew his chair still nigher to her own; and his voice fell 
and trembled as he spoke. 

“ You are the cause, Mary !” 

“ I — I the cause !” She paused and looked at him with un¬ 
reserved astonishment. 

“ Yes, you, and you only, Mary ! Richard Hurdis hates me, 
simply because I love you! Not that he loves you himself, 
Mary!” he spoke quickly—“no, he would control you for his 
own pride! he would rule you and me, and everything alike \ 
But that he shall not! No, Mary! hear me—I have been 
slow to speak, as I was fearful to offend ! I would not be pre- 


76 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


cipitate. I sought to win your regard before I ventuied to 
proffer mine. The affair this day prompts me to speak sooner 
than I might have done. Hear me then, Mary; I love you ! 
I proffer you my heart, my life! I will live for you! I im¬ 
plore you, then—be mine!” 

The head of Mary Easterby sank as she heard this language. 
Her cheek assumed a deeper flush, there was a sorrowful ex¬ 
pression in her eye which did not encourage the pleader; and 
when she spoke, which, after a little pause she did, it annoyed 
him to perceive that she was composed and dignified in her 
manner, and that all trace of emotion had departed from her 
voice. 

“I thank you, John—I thank you for your favorable opin¬ 
ion ; but I am not satisfied that I should be the occasion of 
strife between you and your brother. You tell me that I am — 
' that he is unwilling that you should love me, or that I should 
love you in return !” 

“ It is — it is that, Mary!” he exclaimed hastily, interrupting 
her speech, which was uttered composedly, and even slow. 

“I am sorry that it is — sorry that you think so, John; for, 
I am sure, you must be mistaken.” 

“ Mistaken!” he exclaimed. 

“Yes, John, mistaken! You are—you must be mistaken! 
It can not be as you imagine. Supposing that Richard was un¬ 
willing that you should regard me with favor, and that I should 
respond favorably to your regard—for which I see no reason—” 

He interrupted her again, and with some show of impatience. 

“ There is reason—reason enough — though you may not see 
it! I tell you, that lie would rule us both ! his nature is des- 
potical. A younger brother, he has yet the management of 
everything at home; and, having been brought up as your com¬ 
panion from childhood, he claims to have some right to manage 
your concerns also. He would rule in all things, and over 
everybody, and would not have me love you, Mary, or you me 
for that very reason. Not that he loves you himself, Mary; 
no, no !—that might alter the case were it so—but, I am sure, 
1 know, that he loves another! It is -a sort of dog-in-the-man¬ 
ger spirit that possesses him, and which brought about our quar¬ 
rel.” 


GOOD AND EVIL SPIRITS. 7" 

Here was a batch of lies, and yet there was truth in much 
that he s*aid. Without doubt, I had much of that despotic na¬ 
ture, whLh he ascribed to me, and which, more or less, affected 
my deportment in all my associations; but the whole tissue of 
his speech was woven in falsehood, and one difficulty in which 
he had involved himself by a previous remark, led even to a 
greater number yet. He had ascribed to her the. occasion of 
our quarrel, without reflecting that he had already persuaded 
her that my regards were given to another. It was difficult 
now for him to account for my hostility to his success with 
Mary, unless by supposing in me a nature unnaturally froward 
and contradictory. And such a nature, whatever were my 
other faults, could not fairly be laid to my charge. To have 
suffered Mary to suppose that I really loved her, was no part 
of his subtle policy. For months, it had been his grateful 
labor to impress upon her mind a different belief. 

After hearing him patiently through his hurried tirade, Mary 
resumed:— 

“ I think you do your brother much injustice, John, when you 
ascribe to him a temper so unreasonable. I have known him 
for many years, and while I have often found him jealous and 
passionate, I must defend him from any charge of mere wilful 
and cold perversity. He is too irritable, too quick and impetu¬ 
ous, for such a temper. He does not sufficiently deliberate to 
be perverse; and as for the base malignity of desiring to keep 
one, and that one a brother, from the possession of that which 
he did not himself desire to possess, I can not think it. No, 
John, that can not be the true reason. I have no doubt that 
you think so, but as little is my doubt that you think unjustly.” 

“ I know no other reason, Mary,” was the somewhat cold an¬ 
swer. 

“Nay, John, I speak not so much of the general cause of the 
difference between you, as of the particular provocation of the 
strife to-day. Let it be as you say, that Richard is thus per¬ 
verse with little or no reason, yet it could not be that without 
immediate and rude cause of anger he should rush upon you in 
the high road, and assault you with blows. Such violence is 
that of the robber who seeks for money, or the blood-thirsty as¬ 
sassin who would revenge, by sudden blow, the wrong for which 


78 


RICHARD HtTRDIS. 


he dared not crave open and manly atonement. Now, 1 know 
that Richard is no robber; and we both know him too well to 
think that he would assassinate, without warning, the enemy 
whom he had not the courage to fight. Cowardice is not his 
character any more than dishonesty; and yet it were base cow¬ 
ardice if he assaulted you this day without due warning.” 

The cool, deliberate survey which Mary Easterby took of the 
subject, utterly confounded her companion. He was unprepared 
for this form of the discussion. To dwell longer upon it was 
not his policy; yet, to turn from it in anger and impatience was 
to prejudice his own cause and temper, in the estimation of one 
so considerate and acute as Mary had shown herself to be. 
Passing his hand over his face, he rose from his seat, paced the 
room slowly twice or thrice, and then returned to his place with 
a countenance once more calm and unruffled, and with a smile 
upon his lips as gently winning as if they had never worn any 
other expression. The readiness of this transition was again 
unfavorable to his object. Mary Easterby was a woman of 
earnest character—not liable to hasty changes of mood her¬ 
self, and still less capable of those sudden turns of look and 
manner which denote strong transitions of it. She looked dis¬ 
trustfully upon them accordingly, when they were visible in 
others. 

“ You are right, Mary!” said the tempter, approaching her, 
and speaking in tones in which an amiable and self accusing 
spirit seemed to mingle with one of wooing solicitation. “ You 
are right, Mary; there was an immediate provocation of which 
I had not spoken, and which I remember occasioned Richard’s 
violence. He spoke to me in a manner which I thought in¬ 
solently free, and I replied to him in sarcastic language. He 
retorted in terms which led me to utter a threat which it did not 
become me to utter, and which, I doubt not, was quite too pro¬ 
voking for him to bear with composure. Thence came his 
violence. You were right, I think, in supposing his violence 
without design. I do not think it myself; and, though, as I 
have said, I regard Richard’s conduct toward me as ungracious 
and inexcusable, I am yet but too conscious of unkind feelings 
toward him to desire to prolong this conversation. There is 
another topic, Mary, which is far more grateful to me — will 


GOOD AND EVIL SPIRITS. 


79 


you suffer me to speak on that ? You have heard my declara¬ 
tion. I love you, Mary ! I have long loved you ! I feel that 
I can not cease to love, and can not be happy without you! 
Turn not from me, Mary ! hear me, I pray you! be indulgent, 
and hear me!” 

“ I should not do justice to your good regards, John, nor to 
our long intimacy, if I desired to hear you farther, on this sub¬ 
ject ! Forgive me—leave me now—let me retire !” 

She arose as if to depart. He caught her hand and led her 
back to the seat from which she had arisen. It was now that 
he trembled—trembled more than ever, as he beheld her so 
little moved. 

“ You are cold, Mary ! you dislike—you hate me !” he stam¬ 
mered forth, almost convulsively. 

“No, John, you are wrong. I neither hate nor dislike you; 
and you know it. On the contrary, I have much respect for 
you, as well on your own account as on that of your family.” 

“ Family ! respect! Oh, Mary, choose some other words ! 
Oan not you hear me speak of warmer feelings — closer ties? 
Will you not heed me when I say that I love? — when I pray 
you to accept — to love me in return?” 

“ It must not be, John ! To love you as a husband should be 
loved—as a wife should love—wholly, singly, exclusively, so 
that one should leave father, mother, and all other ties only for 
that one — I cannot! I should speak a base untruth, John, 
were I to say so! It gives me pain to tell you this, sir! it 
gives pain—but better that both of us should suffer the present 
and momentary anguish which comes from defrauded expecta¬ 
tions, than risk the permanent sorrow of a long life, passed in 
the exercise of falsehood ! I am grateful for your love, John ! 
for the favor with which you distinguish me; but I can not give 
you mine. I can not reply as you would wish me.” 

“Mary, you love another!” 

“ I know not, John ! I would not know ! I pray that you 
would not strive to force the reflection upon me!” 

“ You mistake Richard Hurdis, if you think that he loves you, 
Mary. He does not; you can have no hope of him.” 

The coarse, base speech of the selfish man was well answered 
by the calm and quiet tone of the maiden. 


80 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


“And if I had hopes of him, or of any man, John Hurdis, they 
should be entombed in the bosom, where they had their birth, 
before my lips or looks should declare them to other bosoms than 
my own. I have no hopes, such as you speak of; and, so tru¬ 
ly as I stand before you, I tell you that I know not, that I have 
in my heart a solitary sentiment with reference to your brother, 
which, according to my present thought, I would not you should 
hear. That I have always regarded him with favor, is true; 
that I deem him to be possessed of some very noble qualities, 
is no less true. More; I tell you, it is with pain, anxious and 
deep pain, that I have beheld his coldness, when we have met 
of late, and his estrangement from me, for so long a period. I 
would give much to know why it is. I would do much that it 
should be otherwise.” 

“ And yet you know not, Mary, that you love him V* 

“ I know not, John; and if the knowledge may be now ob¬ 
tained, I would infinitely prefer not to know. It would avail 
me nothing, and might — might become known to him.” 

There is no need to dwell longer upon this interview, though 
the vexing spirit of my brother, clothing what he spoke still in 
the language of dissimulation, protracted it for some time longer, 
in vain assaults upon her firmness, and, failing in that, in mean 
sarcasms, which were doubly mean as they were disguised alter¬ 
nately in the language of humiliation and of love. When he 
left her, she hurried to her chamber, utterly exhausted with a 
struggle in which all the strength of her mind had been em¬ 
ployed in the double duty of contending with his and of keep¬ 
ing her own feelings, upon which it was his purpose to play, 
in quiet and subjection. Her tears came to her relief, when 
she found herself alone, but they could not banish from her 
mind a new consciousness, which, from the moment when she 
parted with my brother, kept forcing itself upon her. “ Did 
she, in truth, love Richard Hurdis ?” was her question to her* 
self. How gladly, that moment, would I have listened to her 
answer! 


GUILTY PRACTICE. 


81 


CHAPTER XI. 

GUILTY PRACTICE. 


Macbeth. -Know 

That it was he, in the times past, which held you 
So under fortune ; which, you thought, had been 
Our innocent self: this I made good to you 
In our last conference; passed in probation with you 
How you were borne in hand; how crossed. 
****** 

Now, if you have a station in the file, 

And not in the worst rank of manhood, say it; 

And I will put that business in your bosoms, 

Whose execution takes your enemy off; 

Grapples you to the heart and love of us, 

Who wear our health but sickly in his life, 

Which in his death were perfect. 

Murderer. I am one, my liege, 

Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world 
Have so incensed, that I am reckless what 
I do to spite the world.— Shaksperk. 

The interview had barely terminated when my brother left 
the habitation of the maiden. He had preserved his com¬ 
posure, at least he had concealed the passion which his disap¬ 
pointment had aroused within him, until fairly out of sight. It 
was then that he gave vent to feelings which I had not sup¬ 
posed him to possess. Base I thought him, envious it may be; 
but of malignity and viperous hate, I had never once suspected 
him. He had always seemed to me, as he seemed to others, too 
fat for bitterness, too fond of ease and quiet to suffer any dis¬ 
appointment to disturb him greatly. We were all mistaken. 
When he reached the cover of the woods he raved like a mad¬ 
man. The fit of fury did not last very long, it is true; but 
while it lasted, it was terrible, and in the end exhausting. He 
threw himself from his horse, and, casting the bridle over a 

4* 



82 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


shrub, flung .imself indifferently upon the grass, and gave way 
to the bittere it meditations. He had toiled long, without cessa- 
tion, and his toils had all been taken in vain. It did not offer 
any qualification to his mortified feelings to reflect that he had 
also toiled dishonorably. 

But on a sudden he rose, and resumed his seat in the saddle. 
His meditations had taken a new course. His hopes had re¬ 
vived ; and he now planned projects, the character of which, 
even worse than those already known to the reader, will soon 
be developed. He put spurs to his steed, and rode furiously 
through the wood. It was deep, dark and tangled; but he 
knew the country, with which, it was fortunate for him, his 
horse was also familiar. Through by-paths which were made 
by the cattle, or by scouting negroes, he hurried through the 
forest, and in a couple of hours’ space, emerged from it into a 
more beaten path. A ride of an hour more carried him beyond 
the plantation of my father, which the circuit through the forest 
had enabled him to avoid, and in the immediate neighborhood 
of a miserable cabin that stood in a secluded and wild spot, and 
was seen with difficulty through the crowding darkness. A 
faint light shone through the irregular logs of which it was 
built, and served, while indicating the dwelling, to convey to 
the observer an increased idea of its cheerlessness. 

It was before this habitation, if such it might be called, that 
John Ilurdis drew up his horse. He alighted, and, having first 
led the animal into shadow behind the house, he returned to *he 
door in front, and tapping, obtained immediate entrance. The 
room into which he was admitted was a small one, and so filled 
with smoke that objects were scarce discernible. Some light 
wood thrown into the fire on his entrance served to illumine, if 
not to disperse it, and John spoke to the inmates with a degree 
of familiarity which showed him to have been an old acquaint¬ 
ance. They were old acquaintance, not only of him but of 
myself. The man was a villain whom I had caught stealing 
corn from our fields, and whom, but for John, I should have 
punished accordingly. I little knew what was the true motive 
which prompted his interference, and. gave him credit for a 
greater degree of humanity than was consistent either with 
justice or his true character. He was a burly ruffian, a black 


GUILTY PRACTICE. 


83 


bearded, black-faced fellow, rarely clean, seldom visible by 
day, a sullen, sour, bad-minded wretch, who had no mode of 
livelihood of which the neighbors knew except by inveigling 
the negroes into thefts of property which, in his wanderings, 
he disposed of. He was a constant wanderer to the towns 
around, and it was said, sometimes extended his rambles to 
others out of the state. His rifle and a mangy cur that slept in 
the fireplace, and like his master was never visible by day, 
were his sole companions when abroad. At home he had a 
wife and one child. The wife, like himself, seemed sour and 
dissatisfied. Her looks, when not vacant, were dark and threat¬ 
ening. She spoke little but rarely idly, and however much her 
outward deportment might resemble that of her husband, it 
must be said in her favor, that her nature was decidedly gentler, 
and her character as far superior as it well could be, living in 
such contact, and having no sympathies save those which she 
found in her child and husband. Perhaps, too, her mind was 
something stronger, as it was more direct and less flexible, than 
his. She was a woman of deliberate and composed manner, 
rarely passionate, and careful to accommodate her conduct and 
appearance to the well-known humility of condition in which 
she lived. In this lay her wisdom. The people around com¬ 
miserated her as she was neither presumptuous nor offensive, 
and tolerated many offences in him, in consideration of herself 
and child, which would have brought any other person to the 
whipping post. The child, an unhappy creature, a girl of fif¬ 
teen, was an idiot-born. She was pretty, very pretty, and 
sometimes, when a sudden spark of intelligence lighted up her 
eye, she seemed really beautiful. -But the mind was utterly 
lacking. The temple was graceful, erect, and inviting, but the 
god had never taken possession of his shrine. 

Enough ! It was to this unpromising family and mean abode 
that John Hurdis came late at night. The inmates were watch 
ful and the man ready to answer to the summons. The woman, 
too, was a watcher, probably after an accustomed habit, but the 
idiot girl slept on a pallet in one corner of the apartment. 
When John Hurdis entered, she raised her head, and regarded 
him with a show of merest which he did not appear to see 


8-1 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


He looked with some curiosity at her couch, however; but for a» 
instant only. His regards that night were for her father only. 

“ Ah, Pickett,” said he with an air of jocularity on entering, 
“ how goes it ? How does the world use you now-a-days ? 
How d’ye do, Mrs. Pickett? And Jane—how is Jane?” 

“I’m well, sir, I’m quite well, Mr. John,” was the quick 
lesponse of the poor innocent in the corner, whom everybody 
thought asleep. The answers of Pickett and his wife were not 
bo prompt. That of the former was somewhat surly, that of 
the wife slow. A brief formal dialogue passed between the 
party, in which John Hurdis spoke with infinite good humor. 
He did not seem to heed the coldness of his host and hostess; 
and all traces of his late anger had passed effectually from his 
voice and visage. His only concern seemed now to conciliate 
those whom he sought, and it does not take long for the rich 
man to make the poor and the inferior unbend. In a little time 
John Hurdis had the satisfaction to see the hostess smile, and 
to hear a broken and surly chuckle of returning good-nature 
from the lips of Pickett. The preliminary difficulty was over; 
and making a sign to Pickett, while his wife’s back was turned, 
the guest led the way to the door bidding the latter good-night. 
The idiot girl half raised herself in the bed and answered for 
the mother. 

“ Good-night, Mr. John, good-night, Mr. John.” 

Pickett followed Hurdis to the door, and the two went forth 
together. 

They soon buried themselves in the thick cover of the neigh¬ 
boring wood, when John Hurdis, who had led the way, turned 
and confronted his companion. 

“Well, ’squire,” said Pickett with abrupt familiarity, “I see 
you have work for me. What’s the mischief to-night ?” 

“You are right. I have work for you, and mischief. Will 
you do it ?” 

“If it suits me. You know I’m not very nice. Let’s hear 
the kind of work, and then the pay that I’m to get for doing it, 
’fore I answer.” 

“Richard Hurdis goes for the ‘Nation’ to-morrow,” said 
John in a lower tone of voice. 

“Well, you’re glad to get rid of him, I suppose. He’s out 


GUILTY PRACTICE. 


85 


of your way now. I wish I could be certain that he was 
out of mine.” 

“ You can make it certain.” 

“ How ?” 

“ ’Tis that I came about. He goes to the * Nation,’ on some 
wild goose chase; not that he wishes to go, but because he 
thinks that Mary Easterby is fond of me.” 

“ So ; the thing works, does it ?” 

“ Ay, but does not work for me, though it may work against 
him. I have succeeded in making them misunderstand each 
other, but I have not yet been successful in convincing her that 
I am the only proper person for her. You know my feeling on 
that subject, it is enough that she declines my offer.” 

“ Well, what then are you to do V* 

“ That troubles me. She declines me simply because she 
prefers him.” 

“ But you say she has no hope of him. She thinks he loves 
another.” 

“ Y es! But that does not altogether make her hopeless. 
Hope is a thing not killed so easily; and when wonmn love, 
they cling to their object even when they behold it in the arms 
of another. The love lives, in spite of them, though, in most 
cases, they have the cunning to conceal it. Mary Easterby 
would not give up the hope of having Richard Hurdis, so long 
as she could lay eyes on him, and they are both single.” 

“Perhaps you’re right; and yet, if Richard drives for the 
‘Nation’ she’ll lose sight of him, and then-” 

“ Will he not return ]” replied the other sternly and gloomily. 
“ Who shall keep him away ] The discontent that drives him 
now will bring him back. He goes because he believes that 
she is engaged to me. He will come back because he doubts 
it. He will not sleep until he finds out our deception. They 
will have an explanation—had he not been blinded by his own 
passions he would have found it out before — and then all my 
labors will have been in vain. It will be my turn to go among 
the Choctaws.” 

“Well—but, ’squire, while lie’s off and out of sight, can’t 
you get her to marry you and have done with it]” said Pickett. 

“ Not easily ; and if I could, what would it avail ? Loving 



86 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


him as she does, I should but many her for him. His hand 
would be in my dish, and I should but fence in a crop for his 
benefit No, no, that would not do either. I tell you, where 
these v omen once love a man, to see him, to have opportunity 
with him, is fatal, though they be lawfully bound to another. I 
should not sleep secure in her arms, as I should not be able to 
think that I alone was their occupant.’’ 

“Now, that’s what I call being of a mighty jealous sort of 
disposition, ’squire. I’m sure that you’re wrong in your notion 
of Miss Mary. I don’t think she’d be the woman to do wrong 
in that way. She’s a mighty nice girl, is so modest and well 
behaved, and so much of a lady; I’m always afraid to look at 
her when I speak to her; and she carries herself so high, that 
I’m sure if a man had anything wrong to say to her, he could 
not say it if he looked at her and saw her look.” 

“Ay, that is her look to you, Pickett, and to me, perhaps, 
whom she does not love,” said John bitterly; “ but let her look 
on Richard Hurdis, and meet his eye, and the face changes 
fast enough. She has no dignified look for him ; no cold, com¬ 
posed, commanding voice. Oh, no! It is then her turn to 
tremble, and to speak brokenly and with downcast eyes; it is 
then her turn to feel the power of another, and to forget her 
own; to be awed, rather than to awe; to fear herself, rather 
than to inspire that fear in him which she may in both of us.” 

“ I reckon he feels it too, ’squire, quite as much, if not more, 
than you; for, say what you please, there’s no saying Richard 
Hurdis don’t love her. I’ve watched him often when he’s been 
with her, and when he has not thought that anybody was look¬ 
ing at him — and that was at a time, too, when 1 had no reason 
to like any bone in his skin — and I saw enough to feel certain 
that he felt a real, earnest love for her.” 

“Let us say no more of that now,” said John Hurdis coldly, 
as if not altogether pleased with the tone of his companion’s 
speech. “ Do you like him any better now, Ben Pickett ? is 
he not the same man to you now that he has ever been ? would 
he not drive you out of the country if he could 1 has he not 
tried to do it 1 And who was it stood between you and the 
whipping-post, when, at the head of the county regulators, he 
would have dragged you to it, for robbing the cornhouse, and 



GUILTY PRACTICE. 


87 


buying cotton from the negroes 1 Have you forgotten all this 
Ben Pickett 1 and do you like Richard Hurdis any better when 
you remember that, to this moment, he has not relaxed against 
you, and, to my knowledge, only a month ago threatened you 
with the horsewhip, if he found you prowling about the plan¬ 
tation V* 

“Ay, I hear you,” said the man, while the thick sweat actu¬ 
ally stood upon his forehead, as he listened to an enumeration 
of events from which his peril had been great — “I hear you, 
John Hurdis: all is true that you say, but you say not all the 
truth. Did you hear what I said to Richard Hurdis when he 
threatened me with the horsewhip ? do you know what I said 
to myself, and swore in my own heart, when he would have 
hauled me to the whipping-post from which you saved me V* 

“ No ; what said you ] what did you swear ?” 

“To put my bullet through his head, if he laid the weight of 
his finger upon me; and but that you saved him in saving me, 
so surely would I have shot him, had the regulators tied me to 
the tree and used one hickory upon me.” 

“ I was a fool for saving you, then, Pickett — that’s all. Had 
I known that you could so well have fought your own battles, 
I had let him go on. I am not sorry, Ben, that I saved you 
from the w r hip ; but, by Gr—d, I am sorry to the soul that I saved 
him from the shot!” 

“ I’m not sorry,” said the other. “ Let Richard Hurdis live ; 
I wish him no harm. I could even like him; for, blast me, but 
he has something about him that I’m always glad to see in a 
man, and if he would only let me alone—” 

“ He will not let you alone, Ben Pickett. He can not let you 
alone, if you would look at the matter. He comes back from 
the ‘ nation,’ and Mary Easterby is still unmarried. What then ? 
— an explanation takes place between them. They find out 
the truth : they find, perhaps, that you put the letter in the way 
of Mary that told her about Richard’s doings at Ooosauda ; that 
you have been my agent in breeding the difference between 
them. More than this, they marry, and Richard brings his 
wife home to live with him at the old man’s, where, if he does 
that, he will have full authority. Do you suppose, when that 
time comes. I will stay in the neighborhood 1 Impossible. It 


88 


RICHARD IIURDIS. 


will be as impossible for me to stay here as it will be for you 
The moment I go, who will protect you ? Richard will rout 
you out of the neighborhood; he has sworn to do it; and we 
both know him too well not to know that, if he once gets the 
power to do what he swears, he will not hesitate to use it. Ht 
will drive you to Red river as sure as you’re a living man.” 

“ Let the time come,” said the other gloomily, “ let the time 
come. Why do you tell me of this matter now, ’squire ?” 

“You are cold and dull, Ben Pickett—you are getting old,” 
said John Hurdis, with something like asperity. “Do I not 
tell you other things ? do you not hear that Richard Hurdis sets 
off to-morrow for the ‘ nation’ ? I have shown you that his ab¬ 
sence is of benefit to both of us, that his return is to our mutual 
injury. Why should he return ] The gamblers may cut his 
throat, and the fighting Choctaws may shoot him down among 
their forests, and nobody will be the wiser, and both of us the 
better for it.” 

“ Why, let them, it will be a happy riddance,” said Pickett. 

“ To be sure, let them,” said the other impatiently; “ but 
suppose they do not, Ben ? should we not send them a message, 
telling them that they will serve and please us much by doing 
so ? that they will rid us of a very troublesome enemy, and that 
they have full permission to put him to death as soon as they 
please V’ 

“ Well, to say the truth, ’Squire John,” said Pickett, “ I don’t 
see what you’re driving at.” 

“ You mean that you won’t see, Ben,” responded the other 
quickly; “ listen awhile. You are agreed that it will do us no 
small service if the gamblers or the Choctaws put a bullet 
through the ribs of Richard Hurdis; it will be a benefit rather 
than a harm to us.” 

« Well.” 

“ But suppose they think it will not benefit them, are we to 
forego our benefits because they show themselves selfish ? Shall 
Richard Hurdis survive the Choctaws, and come home to trouble 
us ] Think of it, Ben Pickett; what folly it would be to suffer 
it! Why not speed some one after the traveller, who will ap 
prize the gamblers, or the Choctaws, of our enemy — who will 
show them how troublesome he is—how he carries a good sum 



GUILTY PRACTICE. 


80 


of money in his saddle-bags ? how easy it will he for them t€ 
stop a troublesome traveller who has money in his saddle-bags 1 
It may he that such a messenger might do the business himself 
in consideration of the benefit and the money; hut how should 
we or anybody know that it was done by him 1 The Choctaws, 
Ben—the Choctaws will get the blame, we the benefit, and our 
messenger, if he pleases, the money.” 

“ I understand you now, ’squire,” said Pickett. 

“ I knew you would,” replied John Hurdis, “ and only won¬ 
der that you did not readily comprehend before. Hear me, 
Ben : I have a couple of hundred dollars to spare—they are at 
your service. Take horse to-morrow, and track Richard Hur¬ 
dis into the ‘ nation ;’ he is your enemy and mine. He is gone 
there to look for land. Give him as much as he needs. Six 
feet will answer all his purposes, if your rifle carries as truly 
now as it did a year ago.” 

The man looked about him with apprehension ere he replied. 
When he did so, his voice had sunk into a hoarse breathing, the 
syllables of which were scarce distinguishable. 

“ I will do it,” he said, grasping the hand of his cold and cow¬ 
ardly tempter, “I will do it — it shall be done; but, by G—d, 
’squire, I would much rather do it with his whip warm upon my 
back, and his angry curses loud in my ears.” 

“ Do it as vou will, Ben ; but let it be done. The Choctaws 
are a cruel and treacherous people, and these gamblers of the 
Mississippi are quite as bad. Their murders are very common. 
It was very imprudent for Richard to travel at this season; but 
if he dies, he has nobody but himself to blame.” 

They separated. The infernal compact was made and chron¬ 
icled in their mutual memories, and witnessed only by the fiends 
that prompted th j hellish purpose. 


90 


RICHARD HURDI8. 


' ' i Wf 

CHAPTER XII. 

A POOR MAN’S WIFE. 

“Thou trust’st a villain; — he will take thy hand 
And use it for his own; yet when the brand 
Hews the dishonored member — not his loss — 

Thou art the victim 1”— The Flight. 

When Pickett returned to his hovel on leaving John Hurdis, 
his wife abruptly addressed him thus : — 

“ Look you, Ben, John Hurdis comes after no good to-night. 
I see it in that smile he has. I know there’s mischief in his 
eye. He laughs, but he does not look on you while he laughs : 
it isn’t an honest laugh, as if the heart was in it, and as if he 
wasn’t afraid to have everything known in his heart. He’s a 
bad man, Ben, whatever other people may think; and, though 
he has helped you once or twice, I don’t think him any more 
certain your friend for all that. He only wants to make use 
of you; and if you let him go too far, Ben, mark my words, 
he’ll leave you one day in a worse hobble than ever he helped 
you out of.” 

“ Pshaw, Betsy, how you talk! you’ve a spite against John 
Hurdis, and that’s against reason too. You forget how he saved 
me from his brother.” 

“ No, I do not forget it, Ben. He did no more than any man 
should have done who saw a dozen about to trample upon one 
He saved you, it is true, but he has made you pay him for it. 
He has made you work for him long enough for it, high and 
low, playing a dirty sort of a game; carrying letters to throw 
in people’s paths, there’s no knowing for what; and telling you 
what to say in people’s ears, when you haven’t always been 
certain that you’ve been speaking truth when you did so. I 
don’t forget that he served you, Ben, but I also know that you 




A POOR MAN’S WIFE. 


91 


are serving him day and night in return. Besides, Ben, what 
he did for you was what one gentleman might readily do for 
another : I’m not sure that what he makes you do for him isn’t 
rascal-work.” 

“ Hush !” said Pickett, in a whisper, “you talk too loud. Is 
Jane asleep ?” 

The watchful idiot, with the cunning of imbecility which still 
has its object, closed her eyes, and put on the appearance of one 
lost to all consciousness. 

“ Yes, she’s asleep ; but what if she does hear us ? She’s our 
own child, though not a wise one, and it will be hard if we can’t 
trust ourselves to speak before her,” said the mother. 

“ But there’s something, Betsy, that we shouldn’t speak at 
all before anybody.” 

“I hope the business of John Hurdis ain’t of that character, 
Ben Pickett,” she retorted quickly. 

“And what if it is?” he replied. 

“ Why then, Ben, you should have nothing to do with it, if 
you’ll mind what I’m telling you. John Hurdis will get you 
into trouble. He’s a bad man.” 

“ What, for helping me out of trouble ?” 

“ No, but for hating his own brother as he does, his own flesh 
and blood as I may say, the child that has suckled at the same 
nipple with himself; and, what’s worse, for fearing the man he 
hates. Now, I say that the hate is bad enough, and must lead 
to harm; but when he’s a coward that hates, then nothing’s too 
bad for him to do, provided he can keep from danger when he 
does it. That’s the man to light the match, and run away from 
the explosion. He’ll make you the match, and he’ll take your 
fingers to light it, and then take to his own heels and leave you 
all the danger.” 

“ Pshaw, Betsy, you talk like a woman and a child,” said 
Pickett, with an air of composure and indifference, which he 
was far from feeling. 

“ And so I do, Ben; and if you’ll listen to a woman’s talk, 
it will be wise. It would have saved you many times before, 
and it. may do much to save you now. Why should you do 
any business that you’re afraid to lay out to me. There must 
be something wrong in it, I’m sure; an I it can’t be no small 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


£2 

wrong neither, Ben, that you’re afraid to tell me. What should 
the rich ’Squire liurdis want of Ben Pickett the squatter ? Why 
should he come palavering you, and me, and that poor child 
with fine words; and what can we, poor and mean and hated 
as we are by everybody, what can we do for so great a man as 
him ? I tell you, Ben Pickett, he wants you to do dirty work, 
that he’s ashamed and afraid to do himself. That’s it, Ben; 
and there’s no denying it. Now, why should you do his dirty 
work ? He’s better able to do it himself, he’s rich enough to do 
almost what he pleases; and you, Ben, you’re too poor to do 
even what is proper. These rich men ask what right a poor man 
has to be good and honest; they expect him to be a rascal.” 

“ Well,” said the other sulkily, “ we ought to be so, then, if 
it’s only to oblige them.” 

“ No, Ben Pickett, we ought hardly to oblige them in any¬ 
thing ; but, whether we would oblige them or not, my notion is, 
we ought to keep different tracks from them altogether. If we 
are too mean and poor, to be seen by them without turning up 
their noses, let us take care not to see them at any time, or if 
we do see them, let us make use of our eyes to take different 
tracks from them. There’s always two paths in the world, the 
one’s a big path for big people; let them have it to themselves, 
and let us keep off it; the other’s a little path for the little, let 
them stick to it and no jostling. It’s the misfortune of poor 
people that they’re always poking into the wrong path, trying 
to swell up to the size of the big, and making themselves mean 
by doing so. No wonder the rich despise such people. I de¬ 
spise them myself, though God knows I’m one of the poorest.” 

“ I’m not one to poke in big paths,” said Pickett. 

“ No ! But why do big folks come out of their road into 
yours, Ben Pickett? I’ll tell you. Because they think they 
can buy you to go into any path, whether big or little, high or 
low, clean or dirty. John Hurdis says in his heart, I’m rich; 
Pickett’s poor ; my riches can buy his poverty to clean the road 
for me where it’s dirty. Isn’t that it, Ben Pickett ?” 

The keen gray eyes of the woman were fixed on him with a 
glance of penetration, as she spoke these words, that seemed to 
searf h his very soul The eyes of Pickett shank from beneath 
theii stare. 


A poor man’s wife. 93 

*' Betsy, you’re half a witch,” he exclaimed with an effort at 
jocularity which was not successful. 

“I knew it was something like that, Ben Pickett. John 
Hurdis would never seek you, except when he had dirty work 
t>n hand. Now, what’s the work, Ben Pickett'?” 

“ That’s his secret, Betsy: and you know I can’t tell you 
vhat concerns only another and not us.” 

“ It concerns you; it is your secret too; Ben Pickett—it is 
my secret — it is the secret of that poor child.” 

The speaker little knew that the idiot was keenly listening. 
She continued:— 

“ If it’s to do his work, and if it’s work done in his name, 
work that you won’t be ashamed of, and he won’t be ashamed 
of when it’s done, Ben Pickett, then it’s all right enough. You 
may keep his secret and welcome; I would not turn on my 
heel to know it. But if it’s dirty work that you’ll both be 
ashamed of, such as carrying stories to Mary Easterby, who is 
a good girl, and deserves the best; then it’s but too much of 
that sort of work you’ve done already.” 

“It’s nothing like that,” said Pickett quickly. “But don’t 
bother me any more about it, Betsy; for if you were to guess a 
hundred times, and guess right, I shouldn’t tell you. So have 
done and go to bed.” 

“ Ben Pickett, I warn you, take care what you do. This 
man, John Hurdis, is too strong for you. He’s winning you 
fast, he’ll wrong you soon. You’re working for him too cheaply; 
he’ll laugh at you when you come for pay; and may be, put to 
your own account the work you do on his. Beware, look what 
you’re about, keep your eyes open; for I see clear as daylight, 
that you’re in a bad way. The work must be worse than dirty 
you’re going upon now, when you are so afraid to speak of it to 
me.” 

“ I tell you, Betsy, shut up. It’s his business, not mine, and 
I’m not free to talk of it even to you. Enough that I don’t 
work for nothing. The worst that you shall know of it will be 
the money it will bring.” 

“ The devil’s money blisters the fingers. And what’s money 
to me, Ben Pickett, or what is money to you 1 ? What can 
money do for us? Can it make men love us and seek us? 


94 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


Can it bring us pride and character ? Can it make me forget 
the scorn that I’ve been fed on from the time I was a simpler 
child, than that poor idiot in the corner ? Can it bring sense 
into her mind, and make us proud of her? Can it make you 
forget or others forget, Ben Pickett, that you have been hauled 
to the whipping-post, and saved from it only to be the slave of 
a base coward, such as John Hurdis has ever been, and ever 
will be ?” 

“No more of that, Betsy, if you please. You are quite too 
fond of bringing up that whipping-post.” 

“ And if I do, it has its uses. I wish you would think of it 
half as frequently, Ben Pickett; you would less frequently 
stand in danger of it. But I speak of it, because it is one of 
the black spots in my memory—like the lack of that child — 
like the scorn of those around us—like everything that belongs 
to us, as we are living now. Why will you not go, as I wish 
you, away from this neighborhood? Let us go to the Bed 
river where we know nobody; where nobody knows us. Let 
us go among the savages, if you please, Ben Pickett, where I 
may see none of the faces that remind me of our shame.” 

“ Why, so we will. Just as you say, Betsy. I will but do 
some business that I’m bound for, that will give us money to go 
upon, and then-” 

“No, don’t wait for that. Let the money stay; we have 
enough to carry us to the Red river, and we shall want but 
little of it there. When you talk to me of money you vex me. 
We have no use for it. We want hommony only and homespun. 
These are enough to keep from cold and hunger. To use more 
money, Ben Pickett, we must be good and conscious of good. 
We must not stand in fear and shame, to meet other than our 
own eyes. I have that fear and shame, Ben Picket: and this 
dirty business of John Hurdis — it must be dirty since it must 
be a secret—makes me feel new fear of what is to come; and 
I feel even shame to sickness as I think upon it. Hear me, 
Ben ; hear me while it is in time for me to speak. There may 
not be time to-morrow, and if you do not listen to me now, you 
might listen another day in vain. Drop this business of John 

Hurdis-” 

;f I’ve promised him'.” 



A POOR MAN’S WIPE. 


95 


“ Break your promise.” 

44 No ! d-d if I do that!” 

“ And why not ? There’s no shame in breaking a bad prom¬ 
ise. There’s shame and cowardice in keeping it.” 

44 I’m no coward, Betsy.” 

44 You are ! You are afraid to speak the truth to me, to your 
wife and child. I dare you to wake up that poor idiot and say 
to her, weak and foolish as she is, the business you’re going on 
for John Hurdis. You’d fear that, in her very ignorance, she 
would tell you that your intention was crime!” 

44 Crime V* 

“ Ay, crime—lies, perhaps, in a poor girl’s ear—theft; per¬ 
haps the robbery of some traveller on the highway; perhaps — 
perhaps—Oh, Ben Pickett, my husband, I pray to God it be 
not murder!” 

44 Damnation, woman! will you talk all night ?” cried the 
pale and quivering felon in a voice of thunder. 44 To bed, I 
say, and shut up. Let us have no more of this.” 

The idiot girl started in terror from her mattress. 

44 Lie down, child; what do you rise for ]” 

The stern manner of her father frightened her into obedience, 
and she resumed her couch, wrapping the coverlet over her 
head, and thus, hiding her face and hushing her sobs at the 
same moment. The wife concluded the dialogue by a repetition 
of her exhortation in brief. 

44 Once more, Ben, I warn you. You are in danger. You 
will tell me nothing; but you have told me all. I know you 
well enough to know that you have sold yourself to do wrong 

— that John Hurdis has bought you to do that which he has 
not the courage to do himself—” 

44 Yet you say I am a coward.” 

44 1 say so still. I wish you were brave enough to want no 
more money than you can honestly get; and when a richer man 
than yourself comes to buy you to do that which he is too base 
to do himself, to take him by the shoulder and tumble him from 
the door. Unfortunately you have courage enough to do wrong 

— there’s a greater courage than that, Ben Pickett, that strength¬ 
ens even a starving man to do right.” 

Pickett felt that he had not this courage, and his wife had 


do 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


before this discovered that the power was not in her to endow 
him with it Both parties were compelled, when they discov¬ 
ered the idiot girl to be awake and watchful, to forego their 
discussion of the subject for the night; and when the woman 
did resume it, which she did with a tenacity of purpose, worthy 
of a more ostentatious virtue, she was only successful in arous¬ 
ing that sort of anger in her companion, which is but too much 
the resort of the wilful when the argument goes against them. 
It was more easy for Pickett, with the sort of courage which 
he possessed, to do wrong than right, and having once resolved 
to sin, the exhortations of virtue were only so many suggestions 
to obstinacy. With a warmth and propriety infinitely beyond 
her situation did the wife plead; but her earnestness, though 
great, was not equal to the doggedness of his resolve. She was 
compelled to give up the cause in despair. 


THE BLOODHOUND ON THE SCENT. 


97 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE BLOODHOUND ON THE SCENT 

“His was the fault; be his the punishment. 

"Tis not their own crimes only, men commit 
They harrow them into another’s breast, 

And they shall reap the bitter growth with pain.” 

Lander. 

The messenger of blood departed the next day upon his 
fearful mission. His calculation was to keep due pace with 
bis victim ; to watch bis progress; command his person at all 
times, and to avail himself of the first fitting opportunity, to ex¬ 
ecute the cruel trust which he had undertaken. Such a pur¬ 
pose required the utmost precaution and some little time. To 
do the deed might be often easy; to do it secretly and success¬ 
fully, but seldom. He was to watch the single moment in a 
thousand, and be ready to use it before it was gone for ever. 

“ You will not be gone long, Ben ?” said the wife, as he 
busied himself in preparation. 

“ I know not — a day, a week, a month ! — I know not. It 
mattes s little; you can do without me.” 

“Yes, your wife can do without you — I wish that John 
Hurdis could do without you also. I do not like this business, 
Ben, upon which he sends you now.” 

“What business? what know you of it?” he demanded 
hastily. “Why should you dislike the business which you 
know nothing about ?” 

“ That’s the very reason that makes me dislike it. Why 
should I know nothing about it ? Why should a man keep his 
business from his wife’s knowledge ?” 

“Good reason enough, to keep it from the knowledge of 
everybody else. You might as well print it in the Montgomery 


98 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


paper, as tell it to a woman. There won’t be a Methodist 
preacher that don’t hear of it the first week, and not a meeting 
in the country that won’t talk of it the second. They have 
quite enough of other folks’ affairs to blab, Betsy; we needn’t 
give them any of mine.” 

“ You well enough know, Ben Pickett, that this sort of talk 
means nothing. You know I am not the woman to make her 
own or her husband’s concerns the business of the country. I 
go not often to the church. I do not often see the preachers, 
and there is very little to say between us. It might be much 
better if there were more; and you know well enough, that I 
see few women and have no neighbors. We are not the peo¬ 
ple to have neighbors — what would tempt them 1 It is enough 
for me, Ben, to stay at home, and keep as much out of sight as 
I can, as well on your account as on account of that poor igno¬ 
rant creature.” 

“ Pshaw ! you talk too much of Jane, and think too much of 
her folly. She is no more a fool than most other girls of her 
age, and talks far less nonsense. She’s quite as good as any 
of them, and a devilish sight handsomer than most of them. 
There’s hardly one that wouldn’t be glad to have her face.” 

“You mean me, father Ben, don’t you !” said the witless one, 
perking up her face with a smile and raising it under the chin 
of Pickett. 

“ Go, J ane, go and put. things to rights on the table, and don’t 
mind what we’re a saying.” 

The girl obeyed reluctantly, and the father, tapping her ou 
the head kindly, the only parting which he gave her, left the 
house, and proceeded to his horse which was fastened to the 
fence. There he arranged the saddle, and 'while thus employed 
his wife came to him. 

“Ben Pickett,” she said, resuming the subject of her appre¬ 
hensions, “ I hear that Richard Hurdis is going to the ‘nation* 
to-day.” 

“ Well! what of that!” said Pickett gruffly. 

“ Nothing but this, Ben; I’m afraid that his going to the 
‘ nation,’ has something to do with your journey. Now, I don’t 
know what it is that troubles me, but I am troubled, and have 
been so ever 9ince I heard that Richard was going to-day.” 


THE BLOODHOUND ON THE SCENT. 99 

'* And how did you hear it ?” 

“ From Jane.” 

“Jane, the fool! how did she hear it?” 

“ She’s a fool, hut there’s no need for you to call _er so al¬ 
ways, Ben. It’s not right; it’s not like a father As for 
where she heard it, I can’t say; I didn’t ask her; perhaps 
from some of the negroes; old Billy, from ’Squire Easterby’s, 
was over here, last night.” 

“ Last night! old Billy ! at what hour was he here ?” 

“ Nay, I don’t know exactly. He went away just before 
John Hurdis came.” 

Pickett appeared annoyed by the intelligence, but was silent 
and concealed his annoyance, whatever may have occasioned 
it, by strapping his saddle and busying himself with the bridle 
of his horse. 

“ You say nothing, Ben; but tell me, I beg you, and ease 
my mind, only tell me that the business you’re going upon don’t 
concern Richard Hurdis. Say, only say, you don’t go the 
same road with Richard Hurdis, that you didn’t know that he 
was going, that you won’t follow him.” 

“ And how should I say such a thing, Betsy,” replied the 
now obdurate ruffian, “ when I don’t know which road he’s 
going ? How can I follow him, if I don’t know the track he 
takes!” 

“That’s not it—not it. Tell me that you won’t try to find 
it, that you don’t mean to follow him, that — oh ! my God, that 
I should ask such a thing of my husband—that you are not 
going after Richard Hurdis to kill him !” 

“ Betsy, you’re a worse fool than Jane,” was the reply of 
Pickett. “ What the devil put such nonsense into your head ? 
What makes you think I would do such a thing? It’s true, I 
hate Dick Hurdis, but I don’t hate him bad enough to kill him 
unless in fair fight. If he’ll give me fair fight at long shot, by 
G—d,I’d like nothing better than to crack at him; but I’m not 
thinking of him. If I had wanted to kill him, don’t you think 
I’d a done it long before, when he was kicking me about like a 
foot-ball. You may be sure I wor t try to do it now, when he’s 
let me alone, and when, as you say yourself, he’s going out of 
the country. Damn him,Jet him go in peace, say I” 


100 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


“ Amen,” exclaimed the woman, “ amen; yet look you, Ben 
Pickett. What you mightn’t feel wicked enough to do for 
yourself, you may be weak enough to do for one who is more 
wicked than you are. That’s the misfortune of a great many 
people; and the devil gets them to do a great deal of work 
which they wouldn’t be willing to do on their own account. 
Oh, Ben, take care of that John Hurdis. If you didn’t hate 
Richard Hurdis bad enough to kill him on your own score, 
don’t let that cowardly John tempt you to do it for him. I 
know he hates his brother and wants to get him out of the way ; 
for he wants to marry Mary Easterby; but don’t let him make 
use of you in any of his wickedness. He stands no chance of 
Mary with all his trying, for I know she won’t have him; and 
so if you work for him, you’ll work against the wind, as you 
have done long enough both for yourself and him. But wheth¬ 
er you work for him or not, hear me, Ben Pickett; do nothing 
that you’ll be ashamed or afraid to hear of again. My mind 
misgives me about Dick Hurdis. I wish you were not a-going 
— I wish you were not a-going the same day with him.” 

“ Don’t I tell you, Betsy, I’m not on his trail. I shan’t look 
after him, and don’t care to see him.” 

“ Yes; but should you meet ?” 

“ Well, what then? Would you have me cut and run like a 
nigger’s dog ?” 

“ No ; but I would not have you go to-day. I would rather 
you shouldn’t meet.” 

“We won’t,be sure of that. I promise you, we won’t meet; 
and, if we do, be sure we shan’t quarrel.” 

“You’ll promise that, Ben? — you’ll swear it?” said the wo¬ 
man eagerly. 

“Ay, to be sure I will; I swear, Betsy, I won’t meet him, 
and we shan’t quarrel, if I can help it.” 

“ That’s enough, Ben; and now go in peace, and come back 
soon. It’s off my mind now, Ben, since you promise me; but 
it’s been a trouble and a fear to me, this going of yours to-day, 
ever since I heard that Richard Hurdis was to be on the road.” 

“Pshaw! you’re a fool all over about Dick Hurdis!” said 
Pickett, with a burly air of good humor; “I believe now, 
Betsy, that you like him better than me.” 


THE BLOODHOUND ON THE SCENT. 


101 


“ Like him !” exclaimed the woman, relapsing into the phleg¬ 
matic and chilling sternness of expression and countenance which 
were her wonted characteristics in ordinary moods. “ Like him ! 

. . . neither like nor dislike, Ben Pickett, out of this paling. 
These old logs, and this worm fence, contain all that I can ex¬ 
pend feeling upon, and when you talk to me of likes and dis¬ 
likes, you only mock at your own condition and mine.” 

The man said no more, and they separated. She returned 
to the house, and in a few moments he leaped upon his horse, 
which was a light-made and fast-going, though small, animal, 
and was soon out of sight even of the idiot-girl, who laughed and 
beckoned to him, without being heeded, until his person was no 
longer visible in the dull gray of the forest which enveloped 
him. 

“Fool!” he exclaimed, as he rode out of hearing; “fool, to 
think to make me swear what she pleases, and then to take the 
oath just as I think proper ! I will not meet him, and still less 
will I quarrel with him, if 1 can help it; but I will try and put 
a bullet through him for all that! It’s an old score, and may 
as well be w r iped out now as never. This year is just as good 
for settlement as the next. Indeed, for that matter, it’s best 
now. It’s much the safest. He breaks off from one neighbor¬ 
hood, and they know nothing of him in any other. ‘Well,’ as 
John Hurdis said, ‘ the Choctaws have done it, or the gamblers. 
Ben Pickett has been too long quiet, and lives too far from the 
nation, to lay it to his door. And yet, by G—d! it’s true what 
Betsy says, that John Hurdis is a poor coward after all!” 

It was in thoughts and musings such as these — sometimes . 
muttered audibly, but most frequently entertained in secret— 
that Ben Pickett commenced his pursuit of me, a few hours only 
after I had begun my journey. Circumstances, however, and 
probably an error in the directions given him by my brother, 
misled him from the path, into which he did not fall until late 
the ensuing day. This gave me a start of him which he would 
not have made up, had I not come to a full stop at Tuscaloosa. 
But of this after* ard. 


102 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE SILLY JANE. 

" She dwelt among the untrodden ways, 

Beside the springs of Dove, 

A maid, whom there were none to praise, 

And very few to love. 

A violet by a mossy stone, 

Half hidden from the eye, 

Fair as a star when only one 

Is shining in the sky.”—W ordsworth. 

-“And yet lack!”—S iiakspere. 

The afternoon of the day following that of Pickett’s depart¬ 
ure was one of the loveliest among the lovely days so frequent 
in the Alabama November. The glances of the oblique sun 
rested with a benignant smile, like that of some venerable and 
single-hearted sire, upon the groves of the forest, which, by this 
time, had put on all the colors of the rainbow. The cold airs 
of coming winter had been just severe enough to put a flush-like 
glow into the cheeks of the leaf, and to envelop the green, here 
and there, with a coating of purple and yellow, which served it 
as some rich and becoming border, and made the brief remains 
of the gaudy garb of summer seem doubly rich, and far more 
valuable in such decorations. Dark brown and blooded berries 
hung wantonly from bending branches, and trailing vines, that 
were smitten and torn asunder by premature storms of cold, lay 
upon the path and depended from overhead, with life enough 
in them still, even when severed from the parent-stem, to nour¬ 
ish and maintain the warm and grape-like clusters which they 
bore. Thousands of flowers, of all varieties of shape and color, 
came out upon the side of the path, and, as it were, threw them* 
solves along the thoroughfare only to be trodden upon; while 


THE SILLY JANE. 


103 


hidden in the deeper recesses of the woodland, millions beside 
appeared to keep themselves in store only to supply the places 
of those Avhich were momently doomed to suffer the consequences 
of exposure and to perish beneath the sudden gusts of the equal¬ 
ly unheeding footsteps of the wayfarer. Hidden from sight on¬ 
ly by the winter bloom that absorbed all space, and seemed res¬ 
olute to exclude from all sight, thousands of trees, of more 
delicate nature, already stripped of their foliage, stood like 
mourning ghosts or withered relics of the past—the melancholy 
spider, the only living decoration of their gaunt and stretching 
arms, her web now completely exposed in the absence of the 
leaves, under whose sheltering volume, it had been begun in 
secret. At moments the breeze would gather itself up from the 
dead leaves that strewed the paths of the forest, and ruffle light¬ 
ly, in rising, the pleasant bed where it had lain. A kindred 
ruffler of leaves and branches, was the nimble squirrel, who 
skipped along the forests, making all objects subservient to his 
forward motion; and now and then the rabbit timidly stealing 
out from the long yellow grass beside the bay, would bound 
and crouch alternately ; the sounds that shake the lighter leaves 
and broken branches, stirring her heart with more keen and 
lasting sensations, and compelling her to pause in her progress, 
in constant dread of the pursuer. 

A fitting dweller in a scene of such innocence and simplicity 
was the thoughtless and unendowed creature that now enters it; 
her hand filled with bush and berry and leaf, sought with care, 
pursued with avidity, gathered with fatigue, and thrown away 
without regard. A thousand half-formed plans in her mind — 
if the idiot child of Ben Pickett may be said to possess one—a 
thousand crowding, yet incomplete, conceits, hurrying her for¬ 
ward in a pursuit only begun to be discarded for others more 
bright, yet not more enduring; and from her lips a heartfelt 
laugh or cry of triumph poured forth in the merriest tones of 
childhood, while the tears gather in her eyes, and she sits upon 
the grass, murmuring and laughing and weeping, all by turns, 
and never long. From the roadside she has gathered the 
pale blue and yellow flowers, and these adorn her head and 
peep out from her bosom. Now she bounds away to hidden 
bushes after flaunting berries, and now she throws herself upon 


104 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


a bank and tears to pieces the flowers and shrubs .vhich have 
cost her so much pains to gather. She sings and talks by 
turns as she thus employs herself, and prating in idiot soliloquy 
at fits, she speaks to the flowers that she rends, and has some 
idle history of each. 

“ There’s more of blue than of the others, and sure there 
should be, for the skies are blue, and they take their color from 
the skies. But I don’t want so much of the blue; I won’t have 
so much; I must have more yellow; and there’s a little pink 
flower that Mr. John showed me long time ago, if I could get 
only one of them; one would do me to put in the middle. 
There’s a meaning in that little flower, and Mr. John read it 
like a printed book. It has drops of yellow in the bottom, and 
it looks like a little cup for the birds to drink from. I must 
look for that. If I can only get one now, I would keep it for 
Mr. John to read, and I would remember what he tells me of it. 
But Mr. John don’t love flowers; he does not wear them in his 
button-hole as I see Mr. Richard; and Miss Mary loves flowers 
too; I always see her with a bunch of them in her hand, and 
she gathers great bunches for the fireplace at home. She reads 
them, too, like a book; but I will not get her to read my little 
pink flower for me. I will get Mr. John; for he laughs when 
he reads it, and Miss Mary looks almost like she would cry; and 
she looks at me, and she does not look at the flower, and she 
carries me home with her; but Mr. John takes me a long walk 
with him in the woods, and we gather more flowers together, 
and we sit down upon the log, and pull them to pieces. I wish 
he would come now. If he were with me, I could go deeper 
into the woods; but they look too black when I am by myself, 
and I will not go alone. There’s more than twenty bears in 
those black woods, so mother tells me; and yet, when I go 
there with Mr. John, I don’t see any, and I don’t even hear 
them growl; they must be afraid of him, and run when they 
know he’s coming. I wish he were coming to read my flower. 
I have one —I have two — if he would but come. Oh, me, 
mother ! —whac’s that ?” 

The girl started from the bank in fear, dashing down the 
flowers in the same instant, and preparing herself for flight. 
The voice of the intruder reassured her: — 


THE SILLY JANE. 


105 


“All, Jane, my pretty, is it you?” 

“ Dear me, Mr. John, I’m so glad you’re come ! I .bought it 
was the black bears. Mother says there’s more than twenty 
in these woods, and tells me that I musn’t go into them; that 
they’ll eat me up, and won’t even leave my bones. But when 
you’re with me, Mr. John, I’m not afraid of the hears.” 

“Humph!” was the unuttered thought of the new-comer; 
“ not the less danger perhaps, but of this no matter.” 

“ So you’re afraid of the bears, my pretty Jane ?” he said 
aloud. 

“Ah, no, not when you’re with me, Mr. John; they’re afraid 
of you. But when I’m by myself, the woods look so black, I’m 
afraid to go into them.” 

“ Pretty idiot!” exclaimed John Hurdis, for it was he; “ but 
you’re not afraid now, Jane: let us take a walk, and laugh at 
these bears. They will not stop to look at us; and if they do, 
all we have to do is to laugh at them aloud, and they’ll be sure 
to run. There’s no danger in looking at them when they run, 
you know.” 

“ No, to be sure; but, Mr. John—stop. I don’t know wheth¬ 
er I ought to go with you any longer; for do you know-” 

Here she lowered her voice to a whisper, and looked cautiously 
around her as she spoke — “ do you know mother’s been talking 
to dad about you, and she says—but I won’t tell you.” 

And, with a playful manner, she turned from him as she fin¬ 
ished the sentence, and proceeded to gather up the flowers, 
which, in her first alarm, she had scattered all around her. He 
stooped to assist her, and, putting his arm about her waist, they 
walk forward into the wood, the silly creature all the while re¬ 
fusing to go, yet seeming perfectly unconscious that she was 
even then complying with his demand. When they were some¬ 
what concealed within its recesses, he stopped, and with some 
little anxiety demanded to know what it was that her mother 
had said. 

“ I won’t tell you, Mr. John, I won’t.” 

He knew very well how to effect his purpose, and replied 
calmly— 

“ Well, if you won’t tell me, Jane, I will call the bears—” 

“No, don’t!” she screamed aloud; “don’t, Mr. John! I’ll 

5 * 



106 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


tell you everything. Did you think I wouldn’t tell you, Mr. 
Join ?— I was only in play. Wait, now, till I pick up this 
little pink flower, Mr. John, that’s got the yellow drops in the 
bottom, and I’ll tell you all. This is the flower that you read 
to me, Mr. John: do, now—that’s a good dear — do read it to 
me now.” 

“Not now, Jane—after you tell me about your mother.” 

“ Yes—but, Mr. John, would you set the bears on me for true ?” 

“ To be sure, if you wouldn’t tell me. Come, Jane, be quick, 
or I’ll call them.” 

“No, don’t — don’t, I beg you! I’m sure it’s nothing so 
great to tell you; but I tell you, Mr. John, you see, because 
mother didn’t want you to know. Dad and she talked out, but 
when they thought I was awake, oh, then there was no more 
talk for a while; but I heard them all.” 

“All what, Jane?” 

“ Oh, don’t you know ? All about you and dad, and Mr. 
Richard, and how you hate Mr. Richard, and how dad is to 
shoot him—” 

“ The d—1! you didn’t hear that, Jane !” was the exclama¬ 
tion of the thunderstruck criminal; his voice thick with appre¬ 
hension, his limbs trembling, his flesh shrinking and shivering, 
and his eyes, full of wonder and affright, absolutely starting 
from the sockets. So sudden had been the revelation, it might 
well have startled or stunned a much bolder spirit than was his. 
He led, almost dragged her, still deeper into the woods, as if he 
dreaded the heedful ears of any passing traveller. 

“ What have you heard, Jane ? what more did your mother 
say ? She surely said not what you tell me; how could she 
know—how could she say it? She did not say it, Jane—she 
could not.” 

“ Oh, yes, but she did : she said a great deal more, but it’s 
no use telling you.” 

“How no use? Tell me all, Jane. Come, my, pretty, tell 
me all that your mother said, and how she came to say it. Did 
your father say it to her first ?” 

“Who, dad? Lord bless you, Mr. John, no! Dad never 
tells mother nothing, and what she knows she knows by herself 
without him.” 


THE SILLY JANE. 


107 


“Indeed! But this about Bichard and your father — you 
don’t mean that your mother knew any such thing. Your father 
told her; you heard him talking to her about it.” 

“No, I tell you. Father wouldn’t talk at all; it was mother 
that talked the whole. She asked dad. and dad wouldn’t tell 
her, and so she told him.” 

“ Told him what ? did she hear V* 

“ Yes, she told him as how you loved Miss Mary; but, Mr. 
John, it isn’t true that you love Miss Mary, is it V’ 

“ Pshaw ! Jane, what nonsense ! Go on , tell me about your 
mother.” 

“Well, I knew it couldn’t be that you loved Miss Mary. I 
don’t want you to love her. She’s a fine lady, and a sweet, 
good lady, but I don’t like you to love her; it don’t seem right; 
and—” 

The impatient, anxious spirit of John Hurdis could no longer 
brook the trifling of the idiot, which, at another period, and with 
a mind less excited and apprehensive, he would rather have 
encouraged than rebuked; but now, chafing with excited feel 
ings and roused fears, he did not scruple to interrupt her. 

“Nonsense, Jane—nonsense! Say no more of Mary, but 
tell me of your mother. Tell me how she began to speak to 
your father — what she said — what she knows—and we’ll talk 
of Miss Mary and other matters afterward. What did she say 
of Richard ? what of me, and this shooting of your father ?” 

“ Oh, she didn’t say about shooting dad; no, no, it was Mr. 
Richard that he was to shoot.” 

“ Well, well—tell me that—that!” 

“ Oh, dear me, Mr. John, what a flurry you’re in ! I’m sure 
I can’t tell you anything when you look so. You frighten me 
too much; don’t look so, Mr. John, if you please.” 

The criminal tried to subdue the appearance of anxiety 
and terror which the girl’s countenance and manner sufficiently 
assured him must be evident in his own. He turned from her 
for an instant, moved twice or thrice around a tree—she mean¬ 
while watching his proceedings with a degree of curiosity that 
made her forget her fears—then returning, with a brow some¬ 
what smoothed, and a lialf-smile upon his lips, he succeeded in 
persuading her to resume a narrative which her natural imbe- 


108 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


cility of mind, at no period, would have enabled her to give 
consecutively. By questions carefully put, and at the proper 
moment, he at length got from her the whole amount of her 
knowledge, and learned enough to conclude, as was the truth, 
that what had been said by the mother of the girl had been 
said conjecturally. His fear had been that she had stolen forth 
on the previous night, and, secreting herself n?ar the plaee of 
conference between Pickett and himself, had witnessed the in¬ 
terview, and comprehended all its terms. However relieved 
from his fear by the revelation of the idiot, he was still not a 
little annoyed by the close guessing of the woman. A mind so 
acute, so penetrating, so able to search into the bosom, and 
watch its secret desires without the help of words, was able to 
effect yet more; and he dreaded its increased activity in the 
present business. Vague apprehensions still floated in his soul, 
though he strove to dissipate them, and he felt a degree of inse¬ 
curity which made him half-forgetful of his simple and scarcely- 
conscious companion. She, meanwhile, dwelt upon the affair 
which she had narrated, with a tenacity as strange as had been 
her former reluctance or indifference; until, at length, as she 
repeated her mother’s unfavorable opinion of himself, his dis¬ 
quiet got the better of his courtesy, for he exclaimed aloud: — 

“ No more of this nonsense, Jane ! Your mother’s a fool, and 
the best thing she can do hereafter is to keep her tongue.” 

“ No, no, Mr. John !” replied the girl earnestly, “ mother’s no 
fool, Mr. John; it’s Jane that’s a fool. Everybody calls Jane 
a fool, but nobody calls mother so.” 

“I don’t call you so, Jane,” said Hurdis kindly, sitting be¬ 
side her as he spoke, and putting his arm about her waist. 

“No, Mr. John, I know you don’t, and” — in a whisper— 
“I’d like you to tell me, Mr. John, why other people call me 
so. I’m a big girl, and I can run, and walk, and ride, like other 
people. I can spin and I can sew. I help mother plant pota¬ 
toes, I can break the corn, hull it and measure it, and can do a 
hundred things besides. I talk like other people; and did you 
ever see a body pick flowers, and such pretty ones, faster than 
me, Mr. John?” 

“No, Jane, I never did.” 

“And such pretty ones too, Mr. John! Look at this littlo 


THE SILLY JANE. 109 

pink one. with the yellow drops. Come, read it to me now, Mr. 
John, and show me how to read it like you.” 

“Not now, Jane—some other time. Give me a kiss, now— 
a sweet kiss!” 

“Well, there, nobody asks me to kiss but you and Miss Mary 
sometimes, Mr. John. Sometimes I kiss mother, but she don’t 
seem to like it. I wonder why, Mr. John—it must be because 
I’m a fool.” 

“No, no, Jane, you’re not a fool.” 

“I wish I wasn’t, Mr. John — I don’t think I am; for, you 
know, 1 told you how many things I can do just like other 
people.” 

“ Yes, Jane, and you have a sweeter little mouth than any¬ 
body. You kiss like a little angel, and your cheeks are as 
rosy—” 

“Oh, don’t, Mr. John! that’s enough. Lord, if mother was 
only to see us now, what would she say ? Tell me, Mr. John, 
why don’t I want mother to see me when you’re so good to me 1 
And when you kiss me so, what makes me afraid and tremble ? 
It is strange, Mr. John !” 

“ It’s because your mother’s cross to you, and cold, and gets 
vexed with you so often, Jane.” 

“ Do you think so, Mr. John ? But, it can’t be; mother isn’t 
cross to me, Mr. John, and she hasn’t whipped me I don’t know 
the day when. She don’t know that you walk with me into 
the woods, Mr. John: why don’t I want to tell her — it’s so 
very strange ? She would be mighty vexed if she was to see 
me now.” 

Hurdis answered her with a kiss; and in the next instant the 
tread of a sudden footstep behind them, and the utterance of a 
single word by the intruder, caused the simple girl to scream 
out, and to leap like an affrighted deer from the arms that em¬ 
braced her. 


no 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE T-TRONG MOTHER. 

Mede*u I thought as much when first from thickest leaves 
I saw you trudging in such posting pace. 

But to the purpose. what may be the cause 
Of this most strange and sudden banishment? 

Fausta. The cause, ask you? a simple cause, God wot; 

*Twas neither treason, nor yet felony, 

But for because I blamed his foolishness. 

Medea. I hear you say so, but I greatly fear, 

Ere that your tale be brought unto an end, 

You’ll prove yourself the author of the same. 

But pray, be brief; what folly did your spouse, 

And how will you revenge your wrong on him ? 

Robert Greene. 

Her fear seemed to possess the power of a spell to produce 
the very person whose presence she most dreaded. As if in 
compliance with its summons, her mother stood before her. 
Her tall, majestic form, raised to its fullest height by the fever 
of indignation in her mind, stood between her idiot daughter 
and the astounded John Hurdis. He had sprung to his feet on 
the instant when Jane, in terror, had started from his embrace, 
and, without daring to face the woman, he stood fixed to the 
spot where she first confronted him. Her meager, usually pale 
and severe features, were now crimsoned with indignation; her 
eyes flashed a fire of feeling and of character which lifted her, 
how r ever poor and lowly had been her birth and was her station, 
immeasurably above the base creature whose superior ■wealth 
had furnished the facilities, and, too frequently in the minds of 
men, provide a sanction, for the vilest abuses oi the dependence 
and inferiority of the poor The consciousness of wrong in his 
mind totally deprived him at that instant of those resources of 


THE STRONG MOTHER. 


Ill 


audacity with which he who meditates villany should always 
be well supplied ; and, woman as she was—poor, old, and with¬ 
out character and command, as was the wife of the worthless 
Pickett—the sound of her voice went through the frame of 
Hurdis with a keenness that made him quiver. And yet the 
tones were gentle ; they were studiously subdued, and from this 
cause, indeed, their influence was most probably increased upon 
both Hurdis and the daughter : — 

“ Jane, my child, go home—go home !” 

These were words not to be disobeyed by the trembling and 
weeping idiot. Yet she looked and lingered; she fain would 
have disobeyed them for the first time; but the bony and long 
finger of the mother was uplifted, and simply pointed 'in the 
direction of their cottage, which was not visible from the point 
on which they .stood. Slowly at first — then, after she had ad 
vanced a few paces, bounding off with the rapidity of fear—the 
girl hurried away, and was soon lost to the sight of the two 
remaining persons. 

When satisfied that she was no longer within sound of their 
voices, for her keen eye had followed all the while the retreat¬ 
ing footsteps of the maiden, she turned the entire force of its 
now-voluminous expression upon the man before her. Her 
gray eyebrows, which were thick, were brought down, by the 
muscular compression of the skin of the forehead, into a com¬ 
plete penthouse above her eyes, and served to concentrate their 
rays, which shot forth like summer lightning from the sable 
cloud! The lips were compressed with a smiling scorn, her 
whole face partaking of the same contemptuous and withering 
expression. John Hurdis stole but a single glance at the fea¬ 
tures which were also full of accusation, and, without looking a 
second time, turned uneasily away. But the woman did not 
mffer him to escape. She drew nigher—she called him by 
iame ; and, though she spoke in low and quiet tones, they were 
yet such that he did not venture to persist in his movement, 
which seemed to threaten as prompt and rapid a departure as 
that of the idiot. Her words began, abruptly e lough, with one 
of the subjects nearest to her heart. She was not a woman to 
trifle. The woods in which she had lived, and their obscu¬ 
rity, had taught lessons of taciturnity; and it was, therefore. 


112 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


in tlie fullness of her heart only that she suffered her lips tt 
speak. 

“And wherefore is it,” she demanded, “ that Mr. Hurdis takes 
such pains to bring the idiot daughter of Ben Pickett into these 
secret places'? Why do these woods, which are so wild — so 
little beautiful and attractive — so inferior to his own — why do 
they tempt him to these long walks ? And this poor child, is it 
that he so pities her infirmity — which everybody should pity— 
that he seeks her for a constant companion in these woods, 
where no eye may watch over his steps, and no ear hear the 
language which is uttered in her own ? Explain to me this, I 
pray you, Mr. Hurdis. Why is it that these woods are so much 
more agreeable to you than your father’s or ’Squire Easterby’s 1 
and why a gentleman, who makes bold to love Mary Easterby, 
and who values her sense and smartness, can be content with the 
idle talk of an unhappy child like mine'? Tell me what it 
means, I entreat you, Mr. Hurdis; for in truth — supposing that 
you mean rightly — it is all a mystery to me.” 

The very meekness of the woman’s manner helped to increase 
the annoyance of Hurdis. It was too little offensive to find 
fault with; and yet the measured tones of her voice had in them 
so much that was bitter, that he could not entirely conceal from 
her that he felt it. His reply was such as might have been ex¬ 
pected : — 

“ Why, Mrs. Pickett, I meant no harm, to be sure. As for 
the woods, they are quiet and pretty enough for me; and though 
it is true that my own or Mr. Easterby’s are quite as pretty, 
yet that’s no reason one should be confined only to them. I 
like to ramble elsewhere, by way of change; and to-day, you 
see, happening to see your daughter as I rambled, I only joined 
her, and we walked together; that’s all.” 

“ And do you mean to say, Mr. Hurdis, that you have never 
before joined Jane Pickett in these walks?” 

“ To be sure not — no—” 

“Ha!” 

“Yes—that’s to say, I don’t make a practice of it. I may 
have walked with her here once or it may be twice before, Mrs. 
Pickett—” 

“ Ay, sir, twice, thrice, and a half-dozen times if the truth is 


THE STRONG MOTHER. 


113 


to be told !” exclaimed tbe woman vehemently. “ I ha\e seen 
you, sir, thrice myself, and watched your footsteps, and heard 
your wrnrds— words cunningly devised, sir, to work upon the 
simple feelings of that poor ignorant, whose very feebleness 
should commend her to the protection, not the abuse, of a noble- 
minded man. Deny it, sir, if you dare ! I tell you, here, in the 
presence of the eternal God, that I have heard and seen you 
walk secretly in this wood with Jane Pickett more than three 
several times—nay, more, sir, you have enticed her into it by 
various arts; and have abused her ignorance by speaking to 
her in language unbecoming in a gentleman to speak, and still 
more unbecoming in a female to hear. I have seen you, and 
heard you, sir, with my own eyes and ears; and that you have 
not done worse, sir, is perhaps only owing to her ignorance of 
your meaning.” 

“ You, at least, would have known better, Mrs. Pickett,” re¬ 
plied Hurdis with a sneer — the discovery of the woman being 
too obviously complete to leave him any hope from evasion. 

“ Your sneer falls harmlessly upon my mind, Mr. Hurdis. I 
am too poor, and too much of a mother, sir, to be provoked by 
that. It only shows you to me in a somewhat bolder point of 
view than I had been accustomed to regard you. I knew well 
enough your character, when I watched you in your walks with 
my child, and heard the language which you used in her ears—” 

“ Certainly a very commendable and honorable employment, 
Mrs. Pickett! I give you credit for it.” 

“Ay, sir, both proper and commendable when employed as a 
precaution against those whose designs are known to be im¬ 
proper, and w r hose character is without honor. I v r ell enough 
understand your meaning. It was scarcely honorable, you would 
say, that I should place myself as a spy upon your conduct, and 
become an eavesdropper to possess myself of your counsels. 
These are fashions of opinion, sir, which have no effect upon 
me. I am a mother, and I w r as watching over the safety of a 
frail and feeble child, who — God help her that made her so ! — 
was too little able to take care of herself not to render it need¬ 
ful that I should do so. It was a mother’s eye that w r atched — 
not you, sir, but her child; it was a mother’s ear that sought to 
know — not the w r ords which were spoken by John Hurdis, but 


114 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


all words, no matter of whom, which were poured into the ears 
of her child. I watched not you, but her; and learn from me 
now, sir, that you never whistled her from our cabin that my 
ears caught not the signal as readily as hers—she never stole 
forth at your summons, but my feet as promptly followed hers. 
Do you wonder now that I should know you as I do ? Ah, Mr. 
Hurdis, does it not shame you to the heart to think that you 
have schemed so long, with all the arts of a cunning man, for 
the ruin of a feeble idiot scarcely sixteen years of age ?” 

“ ’Tis false !” exclaimed John Hurdis, hoarse with passion; 
“ I tell you, woman, ’tis false, what you say ! I had no such 
design.” 

“ ’Tis true, before Heaven that hears us, Mr. Hurdis; I say 
it is true,” replied the woman, in moderate tones. “ You may 
deny it as you please, sir, but you can neither deceive Heaven 
nor me, and to us your denial must be unavailing. I could not 
mistake nor misunderstand your arts and language. You have 
striven to teach Jane Pickett an idea of sin, and perhaps you 
have not succeeded in doing so only because nobody yet has 
been able to teach her any idea—even one of virtue. But it 
was not only her mind that you strove to inform. You have 
appealed to the blood and to the passions of the child, and, but 
for the mother that watched over her, you might have succeeded 
at last in your bad purposes. 0 John Hurdis, if Ben Pickett 
could only know, what, for the sake of peace, and to avoid 
bloodshed, I have kept to myself, he would have thrust his knife 
into your throat long before this ! 1 could have stopped you in 

your pursuit of my child, by a word to her father; for, low and 
poor as he is, and base as you may think you have made him, 
he has pride enough yet to avenge our dishonor. I have kept 
back what I had to say to this moment; and now I tell you, 
and you only, what I do know—it will be for yourself to say 
whether Ben Pickett shall ever know it.” 

“ Pshaw, woman ! you talk nonsense; and, but that you are 
a woman, I could be very angry with ym As for doing any¬ 
thing improper with Jane Pickett, I swear—” 

“No, do not swear; for if you do, John Hurdis—if you dare 
swear that you had no such design—I will swear that you be¬ 
lie yourself—that your oath is false before Heaven — and that 


THE STRONG MOTHER. 


115 


you are as black-hearted and perjured as I hold you base and 
cowardly! And if you did swear, of what use would be your 
oath ? Could you hope to make me believe you after my own 
oath ? could you hope to deceive Heaven ? Who else is here 
to listen ? Keep your false oath for other witnesses, John Hur- 
dis, who are more blind and deaf than I am, and more easily 
deceived than the God who alone sees us now.” 

“ Mrs. Pickett, you are a very singular woman. I don’t know 
what to make of you.” 

The manner of the woman had absolutely quelled the base 
spirit of the man. When he spoke thus, he literally knew not 
what he said. 

“You shall know more of me, Mr. Hurdis, before I have 
done,” was her reply. “ My feelings on the subject of my child 
have almost made me forget some other matters upon which I 
have sought to speak with you. You questioned my child upon 
the subject of a conversation between her father and myself. 
She told you that we spoke of you.” 

“ Yes, I think I remember,” he said breathlessly, and with 
feeble utterance. 

“You do remember—you must,” said the woman. “You 
were very anxious to get the truth from my child: you shall 
hear it all from me. You have sent Ben Pickett upon your 
business.” 

“ He will not tell you that,” said Hurdis. 

“ Perhaps not; but I know it.” 

“ Well, what is it?” 

“ Dare you tell ? No ! and he dare not. The husband may 
not show to his own wife the business upon which he goes. 
There is something wrong in it, and it is your business.” 

“ It is not; he goes, if he goes at all, upon his own, not mine. 
I do not employ him.” 

“ You do. Beware, John Hurdis ! you are not half so secure 
as you pretend, and perhaps think yourself. The eyes that 
watch the footsteps of a weak and idiot child, will not be the 
less heedful of those of a weak and erring husband. If Ben 
Pickett goes to do wrong, he goes upon your business. If wrong 
is done, and is traced to him, believe me—for I swear it — I 
will perish in the attempt, but I will trace it home to its pro- 


116 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


jector and proprietor ! You are not, and you shall not he, safe. 
I have my suspicions.” 

“ What suspicions ? I defy you to say I have anything to 
do with your husband.” 

The boldness of John Hurdis was all assumed, and the veil 
was readily seen through by the keen-sighted woman. 

“ I will confirm to your own ears the intelligence which you 
procured from my child. It was base in me to follow and to 
watch over her safety: it was not base in you to pick from her 
thoughtless lips the secrets of her parents, and the private con¬ 
versation of her household ! I will not ask you to define the dis¬ 
tinction between the two. She told you the truth. I suspected 
that you were using Ben Pickett to do the villany which you 
had the soul to conceive, but not to execute. I know some vil- 
lanies on which you have before employed him.” 

“ What villanies mean you ?” he demanded anxiously. 

“No matter now — I may find them of more use to me some 
future day than now. I will tell you now what were my fears 
—my suspicions — when you came to our cabin the last night, 
and carried Ben Pickett with you into the woods—” 

“You followed us? You heard—you listened to what was 
said between us ?” was the hurried speech of Hurdis, his appre¬ 
hensions denoted in his tremulous and broken utterance, in the 
startling glare of his eyes, and the universal pallor of his whole 
countenance. A smile of scorn played upon the lips of the wo¬ 
man— she felt her superiority. She spoke, after a moment’s 
pause, during which the scorn of her face changed into sorrow : 

“Your cheek betrays you, John Hurdis, and confirms my 
worst fears. I would that you had been more bold. I would 
have given much to have seen you more indifferent to my an¬ 
swer. Could you defy me now, as you did but a little while 
ago, I should sleep much easier to-night. But now I tremble 
quite as much as you. I feel that all my doubts are true. I 
would have forgiven you your meditated wrong to my child 
could you have looked and spoken differently.” 

“God of heaven, woman!” exclaimed John Hurdis, with a 
feeling of desperation in his voice and manner, “ what is that 
you mean ? Speak out and tell me all—say the wcrst— what 
is it that you know ? what is it you believe ? Did you or did 


THE STRONG MOTHER. H7 

you not follow us last night ? did you hear my conference with 
your husband V* 

“ I did not!” 

Hurd is was relieved by the answer. He breathed freely once 
more, as he replied— 

“ Ha ! say no more, then; I do not care to hear you now. 1 
have had wind and fury enough.” 

“ You must hear me. I will tell you now what I believe.” 

“ I will not hear you. Let me go ! I have heard enough 
What is your belief to me 1” 

He would have passed her, but she caught his arm. 

“You shall—but for one moment.” 

He paused, and, like an impatient steed beneath a curb which 
chafes him, and from which he can not break away, John Hur- 
dis turned in her grasp, revolving upon the same ground while 
she spoke, and striving not to hear the language which yet 
forced itself upon his senses. 

“ I believe, John Hurdis, that you have sent my husband to 
do some violence. He denies it, and I have striven to believe 
him, but I can not. Since he has left me, I find my suspicions 
return; and they take a certain shape to my mind, the more I 
think of them. I believe that you have sent him against your 
own brother, whom you both hate and fear—” 

“ Woman—you lie !” 

He broke away from her grasp, but lingered. 

“ I will not call you man, J ohn Hurdis; but I will not think 
unkindly of you, if it be, as you say, that I lie. God grant that 
my fears be false ! But, believing what I say—that you have 
despatched my husband to do a crime which you dare not do 
yourself— I tell you that if it be done—” 

“He will be the criminal!” said Hurdis, in low but emphatic 
tones, as he turned from her; “ he will be the criminal, and, if 
detected — if, as you think, he has gone to commit crime, and 
such a crime—the gallows, woman, will be the penalty, and it 
may be that your hand will guide him to it.” 

The woman shrank back, and shivered; but only for an in¬ 
stant. Recovering, she advanced: — 

“ Hot my hand, John Hurdis, but yours, if any. But let that 
day come, no matter whose hand shall guide Ben Pickett to 


118 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


such a doom, I tell you, John Hurdis, he shall have company. 
You are rich, John Hurdis, and I am poor; but know from me 
that there is energy and resolution enough in this withered 
bosom to follow you in all your secret machinations, to trace 
your steps in any forests, and to briiig you to the same punish¬ 
ment, or a worse, than that which you bring on him! I am 
poor and old: men scorn me, and my own sex turns away, and, 
sickening at my poverty, forget for a while that they are human, 
in ceasing to believe me so. But the very scorn of mankind will 
strengthen me; and when I am alone—when the weak man 
whom you entice with your money to do the deed from which 
you shrink, becomes your victim—beware of me; for so surely 
as there is a God in heaven, he will help me to find the evi¬ 
dence which shall bring you to punishment on earth !” 

“ The woman is a fiend—a very devil!” cried Hurdis, as he 
rushed from the strong and resolute spirit before him. Her tall 
form was lifted beyond her ordinary height as she spoke, and 
he shrank from the intense fire that shot through her long, gray 
eyebrows. “I would sooner face the devil!” he muttered, as 
he fled. “ There’s something speaks in her that I fear. Curse 
the chance, but it is terrible to have such an enemy, and to feel 
that one is doing wrong!” 

He looked back but once ere he left the forest, and her eyes 
were still fixed upon him. He ventured no second glance; but, 
annoyed with a thousand apprehensions, to which the interview 
Irad given existence, he hurried homeward like one pursue-1— 
starting at every sound in the woods, though it were 3 nlj the 
falling of a leaf in the sudden gust of November. 


THE TRAVELLERS FALL AMONG THIEVES. 


119 


CHAPTER XVI. 

TIIE TRAVELLERS FALL AMONG THIEVES. 

You must eat men. Yet thanks, I must you con, 

That you are thieves professed; that you work not 
In holier shapes; for there is boundless theft 
In limited professions. Rascal thieves, 

Here’s gold .”—Timon of Athens. 

“ So I leave you 

To the protection of the prosperous gods, 

As thieves to keepers.”— Ibid. 

In the meanwhile, Ben Pickett, moved with no such consid¬ 
erations as those which touched his wife, set forth in pursuit of 
his destined victim. His footsteps I may not pursue at present. 
It will he enough that I detail my own progress. The reader 
has already seen that I arrived safely at Tuscaloosa. How I 
came to escape him so far, I can not say; since, allowing that 
he pursued me with even moderate avidity, he must have over¬ 
taken me if he had so purposed it. But, it is believed, that he 
mistook my route. He believed that I had struck directly for 
the river, on my nearest path to Chochuma. He had no knowl¬ 
edge of my companion’s business in Tuscaloosa; and John Hur- 
dis, being equally ignorant on that subject, could not counsel 
him. Whatever may have been the cause of my escape so far, 
from a foe whose aim was certain, and who had overcome all 
scruples of policy or conscience—if, indeed, he ever held them 
— I had reason for congratulating myself upon my own good 
fortune, which had availed for my protection against his murder¬ 
ous purpose. But, conscious of no evil then, and wholly ignorant 
of the danger I had thus escaped, I gave myself no concern 
against the future; and with all the buoyant recklessness of 
youth, pleased with novelty, and with faces turned for a new 


120 


RICHARD HURD1S. 


world, my companion and myself entered our strange lodgings 
in Tuscaloosa, with feelings of satisfaction amounting to enthu¬ 
siasm. 

The town was little more than hewn out of the woods. Piles 
of brick and timber crowded the main, indeed the only street of 
the place, and denoted the rawness and poverty of the region in 
all things which could please*the eye, and minister to the taste 
of the traveller. But it had other resources in my sight. The 
very incompleteness, and rude want of finish, indicated the fer¬ 
menting character of life. The stagnation of the forests was 
disturbed. The green and sluggish waters of its inactivity 
were drained off into new channels of enterprise and effort. 
Life had opened upon it; its veins were filling fast with the 
life-blood of human greatness; active and sleepless endeavors 
and a warm sun, seemed pouring down its rays for the first time 
upon the cold and covered bosom of its swamps and caverns. 

To the young, it matters not the roughness and the storm. 
Enthusiasm loves the encounter with biting winds, and active 
opposition; but there is death in inaction—death in the slug¬ 
gish torpor of the old community, where ancient drones, like 
the old man of the sea on the shoulders of Sinbad, keep down 
the choice spirit of a country, and chill and palsy all its ener¬ 
gies. There was more meaning in the vote of the countryman 
who ostracised Aristides, because he hated to hear him contin¬ 
ually called “ the Just,” than is altogether visible to the under¬ 
standing. The customary names of a country are very apt to 
become its tyrants. 

Our lodging-house was poor enough, but by no means want¬ 
ing in pretension. You would vainly look for it now in Tusca¬ 
loosa. It has given way to more spacious and better conducted 
establishments. When we arrived it was filled to overflowing, 
and, much against our will, we were assigned a chamber in com¬ 
mon with two other persons, who were strangers to us. To this 
arrangement we vainly opposed all manner of objections. We 
were compelled to submit. Our landlord was a turbulent sort 
of savage, who bore down all opposition, and held to his laws, 
which were not often consistent with one another, with as hardy 
a tenacity as did the Medes and Persians. The long and short 
of it was that we must share our chamber with two other men. 


THE TRAVELLERS FALL AMONG THIEVES. 


121 


seek lodgings elsewhere. This, in a strange town where no 
other tavern was yet dreamed of, was little else than a down¬ 
right declaration, that we might “ go to the d—1 and shake our¬ 
selves and with whatever grace given, we were compelled to 
take the accommodations as they were accorded to us. We in¬ 
sisted on separate beds, however, and here we gained our point. 

“Ay, you may have two a-piece,” was the cold and ready an¬ 
swer ; “ one for each leg.” 

Our objections to a chamber in connection with strangers, did 
us no service in that wild community; and the rough adventu¬ 
rers about, seemed to hold us in no fair esteem on the strength 
of them. But they saw that we were able to hold our own, and 
that, in our controversy with the landlord, though we had been 
compelled to yield our point, we had yet given him quite as 
good as he sent; and so they suffered their contempt to escape 
in winks to each other, and muttered sentences, which, as Ave 
only saw and heard them indistinctly, we were wise enough to 
take no heed of. Not that we did not feel in the humor to do 
so. My comrade fidgetted more than once with his heavy- 
headed Avhip-handle, and my own hand felt monstrously disposed 
to tap the landlord on his crown; but it Avas too obviously our 
pcflicy to forbear, and we took ourselves off to our chamber as 
soon as Ave could beat a retreat gracefully. 

Well might our landlord have given us two or four beds each. 
There Avere no less than tAvelve in the one apartment which had 
been assigned us. We chose our tAvo, getting them as nigh each 
other as possible; and liaA T ing put our saddle-bags in a corner 
behind them, and got our dirks and pistols in readiness, some on 
the table and some under our pillows, Ave prepared to get to 
bed as fast as possible. Before Ave had entirely undressed, 
however, our two other occupants of the chamber appeared, 
one of whom we remembered to have seen in the bar-room be- 
Ioav, at the time of our discussion with the landlord. They 
were, neither of them, calculated to impress me favorably. 
They were evidently too fond of their personal appearance to 
please one avIio Avas rather apt to be studiless of his. They 
were dandies — a sort of Ncav York dandies—men with long 
coats and steeple-croAvned hats, great breast-pins, thick gold 
chains, and a big bunch of seals hanging at their hips. “ What 


122 


RICHARD IIURDIS. 


the deuce,” thought I, to myself, “ brings such people into this 
country ? Such gewgaws are not only in bad taste anywhere, 
but nowhere in such bad taste as in a wild and poor country 
such us ours. Of course, they can not be gentlemen; that sort 
of ostentation is totally incompatible with gentility.” Their 
first overtures did not impress me more favorably toward them. 
They were disposed to be familiar at the start. There was an 
assumed composure, a laborious ease about them, which showed 
them to be practising a part. There is no difficulty in discov¬ 
ering whether a man has been bred a gentleman or not. There 
is no acquiring gentility at a late day; and but few, not habitu¬ 
ated to it from the first, can ever, by any art, study, or endeav¬ 
or, acquire, in a subsequent day, those nice details of manners, 
that exquisite consideration of the claims and peculiarities of 
those in their neighborhood, which early education alone can 
certainly give. Our chamber companions evidently strove at 
self-complacency. There was a desperate ostentation of sang¬ 
froid , a most lavish freedom of air about them, which made 
their familiarity obtrusiveness, and their ease swagger. A 
glance told me what they were, so far as manners went; and I 
never believed in the sympathy between bad manners and mor¬ 
als. They may exist together. There’s some such possibility; 
yet I never saw them united. A man with bad manners may 
not steal-, nor lie, but he can not be amiable; he can not often 
be just; he will be tyrannical if you suffer him; and the cloven 
hoof of the beast must appear, though it makes its exhibition 
on a Brussels carpeting. 

These fellows had a good many questions to ask us, and a 
good many remarks to make, before we got to sleep that night. 
Nor was this very much amiss. The custom of the country is to 
ask questions, and to ask them with directness. There the south¬ 
west differs from the eastern country. The Yankee obtains his 
knowledge by circumlocution; and his modes of getting it, are 
as ingeniously indirect as the cow-paths of Boston. He pro¬ 
ceeds as if he thought it impertinent to gratify his desire, or— 
and, perhaps, this is the better reason—as if he were conscious 
of motives for his curiosity, other than those which he acknowl¬ 
edges. The southwestern man, living remotely from the great 
cities, and anxious for intelligence of regions of which he has 


THE TRAVELLERS FALL AMONG THIEVES. 


123 


little personal acquaintance, taxes, in plain terms, the resources 
of every stranger whom he meets. He is quite as willing to an¬ 
swer, as to ask, and this readiness acquits him, or should acquit 
him, of any charge of rudeness. We found no fault with the 
curiosity of our companions, hut I so little relished their man 
ners, as to forbear questioning them in return. Carrington was 
less scrupulous, however; he made sundry inquiries to which 
he received unsatisfactory replies, and toward midnight, I was 
pleased to find that the chattering was fairly over. 

We slept without interruption, and awakened before the 
strangers. It was broad daylight, and, hastening our toilets, 
we descended to the breakfast-room. There we were soon fol¬ 
lowed by the two, and my observation by day, rather confirmed 
my impressions of the preceding night. They were quite too 
nice in their deportment to be wise; they found fault with the 
arrangements of the table—their breakfast did not suit them— 
the eggs were too much or too little done, and they turned up 
their noses at the coffee with exquisite distaste. The landlord 
reddened, but bore it with tolerable patience for a republican; 
and the matter passed off without a squall, though I momently 
looked for one. Little things are apt to annoy little people; 
and I have usually found those persons most apt to be dissatis¬ 
fied with the world, whose beginnings in it have been most 
mean and contemptible. The whole conduct of the strangers 
increased my reserve toward them. 

To us, however, they were civil enough. Their policy was 
in it. They spoke to us as if we were not merely friends, but 
bed-fellows; and in a style of gentility exceedingly new to us, 
one of them put his arm about the neck of my friend. I almost 
expected to see him knocked down; for, with all his gentleness 
of mood, Carrington was a very devil when his blood was up, 
and hated every sort of impertinence; but whether he thought 
it wiser to forbear in a strange place, or was curious to see how 
far the fellow would go, he said nothing, but smiled patiently 
till the speech which accompanied the embrace was fairly over, 
and then quietly withdrew from its affectionate control. 

The day was rainy and squally—to such a degree that we 
could not go out. How to amuse ourselves was a question not 
go easily answered in a strange country-tavern where we had 


124 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


no books, and no society. After breakfast we returned to our 
apartment, and threw ourselves upon the beds. To talk of 
home, and the two maidens, whom we had left under such dif¬ 
fering circumstances, was our only alternative; and thus em¬ 
ployed our two stranger companions came in. Their excuse 
for the intrusion was the weather, and as their rights to the 
chamber were equal to ours, we had nothing to say against it. 
Still I was disquieted and almost angry. I spoke very distant¬ 
ly and coldly in reply to their speeches, and they quickly saw 
that I was disposed to keep them at arm’s length. But my de¬ 
sire, with such persons, was not of so easy attainment. The 
reserve of a gentleman is not apt to be respected, even if seen, 
by those who have never yet learned the first lessons of gen¬ 
tility ; and do what I would, I still found that they were utter¬ 
ing propositions in my ears which I was necessarily obliged to 
answer, or acknowledge. In this, they were tacitly assisted by 
my friend. 

Carrington, whose disposition was far more accessible than 
mine, chatted with them freely, and, what was worse, told them 
very nearly all of his purposes and projects. They, too, were 
seeking land; they were speculators from New York — agents 
for great land-companies—such as spring up daily in that city, 
and flood the country with a nominal capital, that changes like 
magic gold into worthless paper every five years or less. They 
talked of thousands, and hundreds of thousands, with the glib¬ 
ness of men who had handled nothing else from infancy; and 
never was imagination more thoroughly taken prisoner than 
was that of Carrington. He fairly gasped while listening to 
them. Their marvellous resources confounded him. With 
three thousand dollars, and thirty negroes, he had considered 
himself no small capitalist; but now he began to feel really 
humble, and I laughed aloud as I beheld the effects of his con¬ 
sternation upon him. Conversation lagged at length; even 
those wondrous details of the agents of the great New York 
company tired the hearers, and, it would seem, the speakers 
too; for they came to a pause. The mind can not bear too 
much glitter any more than the eye. They now talked to¬ 
gether, and one of them, at length, produced cards from his 
trunk 


THE TRAVELLERS FALL AMONG THIEVES. 


125 


“ Will you play, gentlemen ?” they asked civilly. 

“ I am obliged to you,” was my reply, in freezing tones, 
“ but I would rather not. ’ 

I was answered, greatly to my mortification, by Carrington— 

“ And why not, Dick ? You play well, and I know you like 
it.” 

This was forcing upon me an avowal of my dislike to our 
would-be acquaintance which I would have preferred to avoid. 
But, as it was, I resolved upon my course. 

“ You know I never like to play among strangers, William !” 

“ Pshaw! my dear fellow, what of that? Come, take a hand 
— we’re here in a place we know nothing about, and where no¬ 
body knows us. It’s monstrous dull, and if we don’t play, we 
may as well drown.” 

“ Excuse me, William.” 

“ Can’t, Dick—can’t think of it,” was his reply. 

“ You must take a hand, or we can’t play. Whist is my only 
game, you know, and there’s but three of us without you.” 

“ Take dummy,” was my answer. 

“ What! without knowing how to value him ? Oh, no ! Be 
sides, I can’t play that game well.” 

You may fight, or eat, or speak, or travel with a man, with¬ 
out making yourself his companion — but you can’t play with 
him without incurring his intimacy. Now, I was somewhat 
prejudiced against these strangers, and had so far studiously 
avoided their familiarity. To play with them was to make my 
former labor in vain, as well as to invite the consequences 
which I had been so desirous to avert. But to utter these rea¬ 
sons aloud was to challenge them to the bull-ring, and there 
was no wisdom in that. My thoughtless friend urged the mat¬ 
ter with a zeal no less imprudent in his place than it was irk 
some in mine. He would hear no excuses, and appealed to my 
courtesy against my principle, alleging the utter impossibility 
of their being able to find the desired amusement without my 
help. 

Not to seem churlish, I at length gave way. Bitterly do I 
reproach myself that I did so. But how was I then — in my 
boyhood, as it were — to anticipate such consequences from so 
seemingly small a source. But, in morals, no departure from 


126 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


principles is small. All principles are significant—are essen¬ 
tial—in the formation of truth; and the neglect or omission of 
the smallest among them is not one evil merely, or one error— 
but a thousand — it is the parent of a thousand, each, in its turn, 
endowed with a frightful fecundity more productive than the 
plagues of Egypt—more enduring, and not less hideous and 
frightful. Take care of small principles, if you would preserve 
great truths sacred. 

As I have said, I suffered myself—it matters not with what 
motives or feeling — to be persuaded by my friend to play with 
him and the strangers. I took my seat opposite to Carrington. 
The strangers played together. Whist was the game—a game 
we both delighted in, and which we both played with tolerable 
skill. The cards were thrown upon the table, and we drew for 
the deal. 

“ What do you bet ?” said one of the strangers addressing me. 
At the same moment, his companion addressed a like inquiry to 
my partner. 

“Nothing; I never bet,” was my reply. 

“ A Mexican !” said Carrington, throwing the coin upon the 
table. My opponent expressed his disappointment at my re¬ 
fusal. 

“ There’s no fun in playing unless you bet!” 

“ You mistake,” was my reply. “ I find an interest in the 
game which no risk of money could stimulate. I do not bet; 
it is a resolution.” 

My manner was such as to forbid any further prosecution of 
his object. He was compelled to content himself as he might; 
and drawing for the deal, it fell to him. He took the cards, 
and, to my surprise, proceeded to shuffle them after a fashion 
which I had been always taught to regard as dishonorable. He 
would draw single, cards alternately from top and bottom, and 
bring them together; and, in this way, as I well knew, would 
throw all the trump-cards into the hands of himself and partner, 
1 did not scruple to oppose this mode of shuffling. 

“ The effect will be,” I told him, “ to bring the trumps into 
your own and partner’s hands. I have seen the trick before. 
It is a trick, and that is enough to make it objectionable. I 
have no pleasure in playing a game with all the cards against me.” 


THE^ TRAVELLERS FALL AMONG THIEVES. 


127 


He denied the certainty of the result which I predicted, and 
persisted in finishing as he had begun. I would have arisen 
from the table but my friend’s eyes appealed to me to stay. 
He was anxious to play, and quite too fond of the game, and, 
perhaps, too dull where he was, to heed or insist upon any little 
improprieties. The result was as I predicted.' There was but 
a single trump between myself and partner. 

“You see,” I exclaimed, as the hand was finished, “such 
dealing is unfair.” 

“No ! I see not. It so happens, it is true; but it is not un¬ 
fair,” was the reply of the dealer. 

“ Fair or not,” I answered, “ it matters not. If this mode of 
shiffling has the effect of throwing the good cards invariably 
info one hand, it produces such a disparity between the parties 
ai takes entirely from the pleasure in the game. There is no 
game, indeed, when the force is purely on the one side.” 

“ But such is not invariably the result.” 

Words were wasted upon them. I saw then what they were. 
Gentlemen disdain the advantage, even when fairly obtained, 
which renders intelligence, skill, memory, and reflection—in - 
died, all qualities of mind — entirely useless. As players, our 
opponents had no skill; like gamblers usually they relied on 
tiick for success, and strove to obtain,, by miserable stratagem, 
what other men seek from thought and honest endeavor. I 
vould have risen from the table as these thoughts passed 
through my mind. We had lost the game, and I had had 
enough of them and it. But my friend entreated me. 

“ What matters one game V* he said. “ It is our turn now. 
We shall do better.” 

The stake was removed by his opponent, and, while I shuf¬ 
fled the cards, he was required to renew his bet. In doing so, 
by a singular lapse of thought, he drew from a side-pocket in 
his bosom, the large roll of money with which he travelled, for¬ 
getting the small purse which he had prepared for his travelling 
expenses. He was conscious, when too late, of his error. He 
hurried it back to its place of concealment, and drew forth the 
purse; but in the one moment which he employed in doing so, 
i could see that the eyes of our companions had caught sight of 
the treasure. It may have been fancy in me, the result of my 


128 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


suspicious disposition, but I thought that their eyes sparkled as 
they beheld it, and there was an instant interchange of glances 
between them. 

Hurriedly I shuffled through, and with an agitation which I 
could not well conceal, I dealt out the cards. There was a 
general and somewhat unwonted silence around the table. We 
all seemed to be conscious of thoughts and feelings, which 
needed to be concealed. The cheeks of my companion were 
red; but he laughed and played. His first play was an enor. 
I fixed my eye upon one of the strangers and his glance fell 
beneath it. There was a guilty thought busy in his boson. 
Scarcely a word was spoken — none unnecessarily—while tlat 
hand lasted. But when it came to the turn of one of our oppo¬ 
nents to deal, and when I found him shuffling as before, I grew 
indignant. I protested. He insisted upon his right to shufle 
as he pleased — a right which I denied. He would not yield 
the point, and I left the table. The fellow would have put or 
airs, and actually thought to bully me. He used some bi' 
words, and, rising at the same time, approached me. 

“ Sir, your conduct—” 

I stopped him half way, and in his speech — 

“ Is insulting you would say.” 

“ I do, sir ; very insulting, sir, very.” 

“ Be it so. I can not help it. I will play with no man wlo 
employs a mode of shuffling which puts all the trump carls 
into his own and partner’s hands. I do not wish to play with 
you, anyhow, sir ; and very much regret that the persuasions of 
my friend made me yield against my better judgment. My rule 
is never to play with strangers, and your game has confirmed 
me in my opinion of its propriety. I shall take care never to 
depart from it in future,” 

“ Sir, you don’t mean to impute anything to my honor. If 
you do, sir-” 

My reply to this swagger was anticipated by William, who 
had not before spoken, but now stood between us. 

“ And what if he did, eh V* 

“ Why, sir—but I was not speaking to you, sir,” said the 
fellow. 



THE TRAVELLERS FALL AMONG THIEVES. 129 

“ Ay, I know that, but I’m speaking to you. What if he did 
doubt your honor, and what if I doubt it, eh!” 

“Why then, sir, if you did—” The fellow paused. He 
was a mere bully and looked round to his companion, who still 
kept a quiet seat at the table. 

“Pshaw!” exclaimed William, in a most contemptuous 
manner. 

“ You are mistaken in your men, my good fellow. Take up 
your Mexican, and thank your stars you have got it so easily. 
Shut up now and be quiet. It lies upon the table.” The fel¬ 
low obeyed. 

“You won’t play any longer?” he demanded. 

“ No,” was my reply. “ To play with you, is to make you 
and declare you, our friends. We will fight with you, if you 
please, but not play with you !” 

To this proposition the answer was slow. We were, at least 
possessors of the ground. But our triumph was a monstrous 
small one, and we paid for it. The annoyance of the whole 
scene was excessive to me. Carrington did not so much feel 
it. He was a careless, buoyant, good sort of creature, having 
none of my suspicion, and little of that morbid pride which 
boiled in me. He laughed at the fellows and the whole affair, 
when I was most disposed to groan over it, and to curse them. 
I could only bring his countenance to a grave expression, when 
I reminded him of his imprudence in taking out his roll of 
money. 

“ Ay, that was cursed careless,” he replied; “ but there’s no 
helping it now — I must only keep my wits about me next 
time; and if harm comes from it, keep a stiff lip and a stout 
heart, and be ready to meet it.” 

William Carrington was too brave a fellow to think long of 
danger, and he went to bed that night with as light a hear! as 
if he had not a sixpence in the world. 


130 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

AMONG PITS AND TRAPFALLS. 

“ I heard myself proclaim’d ; 

And, by the happy hollow of a tree, 

Escaped the hunt. No port is free; no place. 

That guard and most unusual vigilance 

Does not attend my taking. While I may ’scape, 

I will preserve myself.” King Lear. 

The next day opened bright and beautiful, and we prepared 
to resume our journey. Our fellow-chamberers bad not shown 
themselves to us since our rupture; they had not slept that 
night at the tavern. Their absence gave us but little concern 
at the time, though we discovered afterward that it had no lit¬ 
tle influence upon our movements. I have already said that 
my companion held a claim upon a man in the neighborhood of 
Tuscaloosa, for some hundred and thirty dollars, the price of a 
mule which he had sold to him during the previous season. 
To collect this debt had been the only motive for carrying us 
so far from our direct route, which had been to Chochuma. 
The man’s name was Matthew Webber; of his character and 
condition we knew nothing, save that he was a small farmer 
supposed to be doing well. That he had not paid the money 
before, when due, was rather an unfavorable symptom; but of 
the ultimate payment of it William had not the slightest doubt. 
He was secured by the indorsed promise of a Colonel Grafton, 
a gentleman of some wealth, who planted about fourteen miles 
from Tuscaloosa, in the direction of Columbus, but fully eleven 
miles from the road. There was a short cut to his house, and 
we proposed to ride thither and obtain directions for finding 
the debtor. He had once been Grafton’s overseer and the lat¬ 
ter knew all about him. Our landlord, who had g" )wn civii 


AMONG PITS AND TRAPFALLS. 


\6l 


enough to us, and who was really a very good sort ; f body 
when taken in the grain, freely gave us proper instructions for 
finding our road by the short cut. Of Grafton he spoke with 
kindness and respect, but I could not help observing, when we 
inquired after Webber, that he evaded inquiry, and when re¬ 
peated, shook his head and turned away to other customers. 
He evidently knew enough to think unfavorably, and his glance 
when he spoke of the man was uneasy and suspicious. Finding 
other questions unproductive, we had our horses brought forth, 
paid our charges, and prepared to mount. Our feet were al¬ 
ready in the stirrups, when the landlord followed us, saying 
abruptly, but in a low tone, as he readied the spot where we 
stood: — 

“ Gentlemen, I don’t know much of the people whom you 
seek, but I know but little that is very favorable of the country 
into which you’re going. Take a hint before starting. If you 
have anything to lose, it’s easy losing it on the road to Cho- 
chuma, and the less company you keep as you travel, the bet¬ 
ter for your saddle-bags. Perhaps, too, it wouldn’t be amiss, 
if you look at your pistols before you start.” 

He did not wait for our answer, but returned to his bar-room 
and other avocations as if his duty was ended. We were both 
surprised, but I did not care to reject his warnings. William 
laughed at the gravity of the advice given us, but I saw it with 
other eyes. If I was too suspicious of evil, I well knew that 
my companion was apt to err in the opposite extreme — he was 
imprudent and thoughtless; and, in recklessness of courage 
only, prevented a thousand evil consequences which had other¬ 
wise occurred from his too confiding nature. 

“ Say nothing now,” I observed to him — “but let us ride 
till we get into the woods, then see to your pistols.” 

“ Pshaw, Dick,” was his reply, “ what do you suspect now ? 
The pistols have been scarcely out ‘f sight since we left home.” 

“ They have been out of sight. We left them always in the 
chamber when we went to meals.’ 

“ True, but for a few moments only, and then all about tho 
house were at meals also.” 

“ No ; at breakfast yesterday those gamblers came in after us, 
and I tliink then they came from our chamber. Besides, though 


132 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


they did not sleep with us last night, I am persuaded that one 
or both of them were in the room. I heard a light step at mid¬ 
night, or fancied it; and found my overcoat turned this morn¬ 
ing upon the chair.” 

“ The chambermaid, or Cuffy for the boots. You are the 
most suspicious fellow, Dick, and, somehow, you hated these 
two poor devils from the very first moment you laid eyes on 
them. Now, d—n ’em. for my part, I never gave ’em a second 
thought. I could have licked either, or both, and when that 
chap with the hook-nose began to swagger about, I felt mon¬ 
strous like doing it. But he was a poor shote, and the less said 
and thought of him the better. I should not care much to meet 
him if he had earned the pistols quite off, and presented them 
to me, muzzle-stuffed, at the next turning.” 

“ He may yet do so,” was my calm reply. “ At least it will 
do us no harm to prepare for all events. Let us clear the town, 
and when we once get well hidden in the woods, we’ll take 
counsel of our landlord, and see to our priming.” 

“ Why not do it now V’ 

“ For the best of reasons — there are eyes on us, and some of 
them may be unfriendly. Better that they should suppose us 
ignorant and unprepared, if they meditate evil.” 

“As you please, but I would not be as jealous and suspicious 
as you are, Dick, not for all I’m worth.” 

“ It may be worth that to you to become so. But ride on; 
the ferryman halloos, and beckons us to hasten. There are 
other travellers to cross. I’m sorry for it. We want no more 
company.” 

“Ay, but we do, Dick. The more the merrier, say I. If 
there’s a dozen, no harm, so they be not in our way in entering 
land. I like good company. A hearty joke, or a good stor', 
sets me laughing all the day. None of your travellers that need 
to be bawled at to ride up, and open their ovens; none of your 
sober-sided, drawling, croaking methodists, for me—your fel¬ 
lows that preach against good living, yet eat of the fat of the 
land whenever they can get it, and never refuse a collection, 
however small, the amount. If I hate any two-legged creature 
that calls himself human, it is your canting fellow, that preaches 
pennyworths cf morality, and practises pounds of sin ; that says 


AMONG PITS AND TRAPFALLS. 


133 


a long grace at supper, till the meat grows cold, and that same 
•light inveigles your chambermaid into the blankets beside him. 
I wouldn’t think so much of the sin if it wasn’t for the hypoc¬ 
risy. It’s bad enough to love the meal; but to preach over it, 
before eating, is a shame as well as a sin. None but your 
sneaks do it; fellows whom you might safer trust with your soul 
than with your purse. They could do little harm to the one, 
but they’d make off with the other. None of those chaps for 
me, Dick; yet give me as many travellers as you please. Here 
seem to be several going to cross; all wagoners but one, and he 
seems just one of the scamps I’ve been talking of—a short, 
chunky, black-coated little body : ten to one his nose turns up 
like a pug-puppy’s, and he talks through it.” 

It was in such careless mood and with such loose speech that 
my companion beguiled the time between our leaving the hotel 
and reaching the flat which was to convey us across the river. 
William was in the very best of spirits, and these prompted him 
to a freedom of speech which might be supposed to denote some 
laxity of morals; and yet his morals were unquestionable. In 
deed, it is not unfrequently the case that a looseness of speech is 
associated with a rigid practice of propriety. A consciousness 
of purity is very apt to prompt a license of speech in him who 
possesses it; while he, on the other hand, who is most apt to 
indulge in vice, will most usually prove himself most circum¬ 
spect in speech. Vice, to be successful, calls for continual cir¬ 
cumspection ; and in no respect does it exhibit this quality more 
strikingly than in the utterance of its sentiments. The family 
of Joe Surface is a singularly numerous one. My companion 
was no Joe Surface. He carried his character in his looks, in 
his speech, and in his actions. When you saw the looks, heard 
the speech, and witnessed the actions, you had him before you, 
without possibility or prospect of change, for good and for evil; 
and, to elevate still more highly the character whicli I admired, 
and the man I could not but love, I will add that he was only 
too apt to extenuate the motives of others by a reference to his 
own. He had no doubts of the integrity of his fellow—no fears 
of wrong at his hand; was born with a nature as clear as the 
sunlight, as confiding as the winds, and had seen too little of 
the world, at the period of which I speak, to have had experi- 


134 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


ence unteach the sweeter lessons of his unsophisticated humanity. 
Let not the reader chide me as lavish in my eulogy: before he 
does so, let me pray him to suppose it written upon his tombstone. 

We soon reached the flat, and were on our way across the 
river in a few minutes after. The little man in the black coat 
had, in truth, as my companion had predicted, a little pug-puppy 
nose, but in his other guesses he was quite out. We soon dis¬ 
covered that he was no sermonizer — there was anything but 
hypocrisy in his character. On the contrary, he swore like a 
trooper whenever occasion offered; and I was heartily rejoiced, 
for the decency of the thing, if for no other reason, to discover, 
as I soon did, that the fellow was about to take another road 
from ourselves. The other men, three in number, were farmers 
in the neighborhood, who had been in to supply the Tuscaloosa 
market. Like the people of all countries who live in remote 
interior situations, and see few strangers who can teach them 
anything, these people had each a hundred questions to ask, 
and as many remarks to make upon the answers. They were 
a hearty, frank, plain-spoken, unequivocal set, who would share 
with you their hoe-cake and bacon, or take a fling or dash of 
fisticuffs with you, according to the several positions, as friend 
or foe, which you might think proper to take. Among all the 
people of this soil, good humor is almost the only rule which 
will enable the stranger to get along safely. 

We were soon over the river, which is broad and not so 
rapid at this spot as at many others. The Tuscaloosa or Black 
Warrior river is a branch of the Tombeckbe. 

The site of the town which bears its name, and which is now 
the capital town of Alabama, was that of the Black Warrior’s 
best village. There is no remnant, no vestige, no miserable 
cabin, to testify to what he and his people were. The memo¬ 
rials of this tribe, like that of all the American tribes, are few, 
and yet the poverty of the relics but speak the more emphati¬ 
cally for the mournfulness of their fate. Who will succeed to 
their successors, and what better memorials will they leave to 
the future 1 It is the boast of civilization only that it can build 
its monument—leave its memorial; and yet Cheops, could he 
now look upon his mausoleum, might be seen to smile over the 
boast. Euougli of this. 


AMONG PITS AND TRAPFALLS. 


185 


We had no sooner separated from our companions of the boat, 
and got fairly into the shelter of the woods, than I reminded 
William of the inspection of our firearms, which I proposed to 
make after the cautionary hint of my landlord. We rode aside, 
accordingly, into a thick copse that lay to the right, and cov¬ 
ered a group of hills, and drew out our weapons. To the utter 
astonishment of my companion, and to my own exasperation, 
we found, not only no priming in the pans of our pistols, but the 
flints knocked out, and wooden ones, begrimed with gunpowder, 
substituted in their place ! Whom could we suspect of this hut 
our two shuffling companions of the chamber ? The discovery 
was full of warning. We were in a bad neighborhood, and it 
behooved us to keep our wits about us. We were neither of us 
men to be terrified into inactivity by the prospect of danger; 
and, though aroused and apprehensive, we proceeded to prepare 
against the events which seemed to threaten us, and we knew 
not on which hand. Fortunately, we had other flints, and other 
weapons, and we put all of them in readiness for instant requi¬ 
sition. We had scarcely done so, and remounted, when we 
heard a horseman riding down the main track toward the river. 
We did not look to see who the traveller might be, but, taking 
our own course, entered upon the left-hand trail of a fork, which 
took us out of the main, into a neighboring road, by which we 
proposed to reach the plantation of Mr. Grafton in the rear, 
avoiding the front or main road, as it was some little distance 
longer. To our own surprise, we reached the desired place in 
safety, and without the smallest interruption of any kind. Yet 
our minds had been wrought up and excited to the very high¬ 
est pitch of expectation, and I felt that something like disap¬ 
pointment was predominant in my bosom, for the very security 
we then enjoyed. A scuffle had been a relief to that anxiety 
which was not diminished very greatly by the knowledge that, 
for a brief season, we were free from danger. The trial, we 
believed, was yet to come; and the suspense of waiting was a 
greater source of annoyance than any doubts or apprehension 
which we might have had of the final issue. 


136 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A FOREST HOME. 

“ This night at least. 

The hospitable hearth shall flame 
And. 

Find for the wanderer rest and fire.” — Walter Soott. 

Colonel Grafton —for we are all colonels at least, in the 
southern and southwestern states—received us at the doorsteps 
of his mansion, and gave us that cordial kind of reception which 
makes the stranger instantly at home. Our horses were taken, 
and, in defiance of all our pleading, were hurried off to the sta¬ 
bles ; while we were ushered into the house by our host, and 
made acquainted with his family. This consisted of his wife, a 
fine, portly dame of forty-five, and some five children, in the 
several stages from seven to seventeen—the eldest, a lovely 
damsel, with bright blue eyes and dark-brown hair, fair as a 
city lily; the youngest an ambitious urchin, the cracking of 
whose knotted whip filled the room with noises, which it re¬ 
quired an occasional finger-shake of the indulgent mother finally 
to subdue. Hospitality was a presiding virtue, not an ostenta¬ 
tious pretender, in that pleasant household; and, in the space 
of half an hour, we felt as comfortably at home with its inmates 
as if we had been associates all our lives. Colonel Grafton 
would not listen to our leaving him that night. When William 
pleaded his business, he had a sufficient answer. The man 
whom he sought lived full twelve miles off; and, through a te¬ 
dious region of country, it would take us till dark, good riding, 
to reach and find the spot, even if we started before dinner—a 
violation of good breeding not to be thought of in Alabama. 
We were forced to stay, and, indeed, needed no great persua¬ 
sion. The air of the whole establishment took us both at first 




A FOREST HOME. 


137 


sight. There is a household as well as individual manner, 
which moves us almost with as great an influence; and that of 
Colonel Grafton’s was irresistible. A something of complete life 
— calm, methodical, symmetrical life—life in repose — seemed 
to mark his parlor, his hall, the arrangements of his grounds 
and gardens, the very grouping of the trees. All testified to 
the continual presence of a governing mind, whose whole feel¬ 
ing of enjoyment was derived from order—a method as rigor¬ 
ous as it was simple and easy of attainment. Yet there was no 
trim formality in either his own or his wife’s deportment; and, 
as for the arrangement of things about his house, you could im¬ 
pute to neither of them a fastidious nicety and marked disposi¬ 
tion to set chairs and tables, books and pictures, over and against 
each other of equal size and like color. To mark what I mean 
more distinctly, I will say that he never seemed to insist on 
having things in their places , but he was always resolute to have 
them never in the way. There is no citizen of the world who 
will not readily conceive the distinction. 

We had a good dinner, and, after dinner, taking his wife and 
all his children along, he escorted us over a part of his grounds, 
pointed out his improvements, and gave us the domestic history 
of his settlement. Miss Grafton afterward, at her father’s sug¬ 
gestion, conducted us to a pleasant promenade of her own find¬ 
ing, which, in the indulgence of a very natural sentimentality, 
she had entitled “ The Grove of Coronatte,” after a lovesick 
Indian maiden of that name, who, it is said by tradition, pre¬ 
ferred leaving her tribe when it emigrated to the Mississippi, 
to an exile from a region in which she had lived from infancy, 
and which she loved better than her people. She afterward 
became the wife of a white man named Johnson, and there the 
tradition ends. The true story — as Colonel Grafton more than 
hinted—was, that Coronatte was tempted by Johnson to be 
come his wife long before the departure of the tribe, and she, 
in obedience to natural not less than scriptural laws, preferred 
cleaving to her husband to going with less-endearing relations 
into foreign lands. The colonel also intimated his doubts as to 
the formality of the ceremony by which the two were united; 
but this latter suggestion was made to us in a whisper—Julia 
Grafton wholly denying, and with some earnestness I thought, 


138 


RICHARD HURDIS 


even such portions of her father’s version of the romance as he 
had permitted to reach her ears. 

That night we rejoiced in a warm supper, and, when it was 
ended, I had reason to remark with delight the effect upon the 
whole household of that governing character on the part of its 
head which had impressed me at first entering it. The supper- 
tilings seemed removed by magic. We had scarcely left the 
table, Mrs. Grafton leading the way, and taken our places around 
the fire, when Julia took her mother’s place at the waiter; and 
without noise, bustle, or confusion, the plates and cups and sau¬ 
cers were washed and despatched to their proper places. A 
single servant only attended, and this servant seemed endowed 
with ubiquity. She seemed to have imbibed the general habits 
of her superiors, and did quite as much, if not more, than would 
have been done by a dozen servants, and with infinitely less 
confusion. Such was the result of method in the principal: 
there is a moral atmosphere, and we become acclimated, when 
under its action, precisely as in the physical world. The slave 
had tacitly fallen into the habits and moods of those above her 
—as inferiors are very apt to do—and, without a lesson pre¬ 
scribed or a reason spoken, she had heeded all lessons, and felt, 
though she might not have expressed, the reasons for all. The 
whole economy of the household was admirable: not an order 
was given; no hesitation or ignorance of what was needed, 
shown; but each seemed to know by instinct, and to perform 
with satisfaction, his or her several duties. Our repasts are sel¬ 
dom conducted anywhere in the Southwest with a strict atten¬ 
tion to order. A stupid slave puts everything into confusion, 
and we do not help the matter much by bringing in a dozen to 
her aid. The fewer servants about houses the better: they 
learn to do, the more they are required to do, and acquire a 
habit of promptness without which a servant might be always 
utterly worthless. 

When the table was removed, Julia joined us, and we all 
chatted pleasantly together for the space of an hour. As soon 
as the conversation seemed to flag, at a signal from Colonel 
Grafton, which his daughter instantly recognised and obeyed, 
she rose, and, bringing a little stand to the fireside, on which 
lay several books, she prepared to read to us, in complianco 


A FOREST HOME. 


139 


with one of the fireside laws of her father—one which he had 
insisted upon, and which she had followed, from the first mo¬ 
ment of her being able to read tolerably. She now read well — 
sweetly, unaffectedly, yet impressively. A passage from “ The 
Deserted Village” interested us for half an hour; and the book 
made way for conversation among the men, and needlework 
among the women. But the whole scene impressed me with 
delight — it was so natural, yet so uncommon in its aspect— 
done with so much ease, with so little effort, yet so completely. 
Speaking of it in compliment to our host when the ladies had 
retired, we received a reply which struck me as embodying the 
advantages of a whole host of moral principles, such as are laid 
down in books, but without any of their cold and freezing dry¬ 
nesses. “ Sir,” said Colonel Grafton, “ I ascribe the happiness 
of my family to a very simple origin. It has always been a 
leading endeavor with me to make my children love the family 
fireside. If the virtues should dwell anywhere in a household, 
it is there. There I have always and only found them.” 

And there they did dwell of a truth. I felt their force, and 
so did my companion. William, indeed, was so absolutely 
charmed with Julia Grafton, that I began to apprehend that he 
would not only forget his betrothed, but his journey also — a 
journey which, I doubt not, the reader, agreeing with myself, 
would have us instantly resume. But we had consented to 
stay with oitr friendly host that night; and before we retired 
we made all necessary inquiries touching his debtor. Colonel 
Grafton gave my friend little encouragement on the subject of 
his claim. 

“ I am almost sorry,” he said, “ that I endorsed that man’s 
note. I fear I shall have to pay it; not that I regard the loss, 
but that it will make me the more reluctant hereafter to assist 
other poor men in the same manner. The dishonesty of one 
beginner in this way affects the fortunes of a thousand others, 
who are possibly free from his or any failings of the kind. 
When I signed the note for Webber, he was 'ny overseer, but 
disposed to set up for himself. I had found him honest —or, 
rather, I had never found him dishonest. If he was, he had 
rogue’s cunning enough to conceal it. Since he left me, how- 
evei he has become an object of suspicion to the whole neigh- 


140 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


borhood, and many are the tales which I hear of his miscon 
duct. It is not known how he lives. A miserable patch of 
corn and one of potatoes form his only pretence as a farmer, 
and to these he pays so little attention, that his apology in 
openly laughed at. The cattle are commonly in the cornfield, 
and the hogs do what they please with the potato-patch. H< 
does not see, or does not care to see. He is seldom at home ; 
and you may have to return to-morrow without finding him. 
If so, scruple not to make my house your home so long as i I 
may serve your purpose and prove agreeable. ,, 

We thanked him with due frankness, and he proceeded: — 

“ This man has no known resources whatsoever, yet he is sel 
dom without money. He is lavish of it, and must get it easily. 
It is commonly thought that he gambles, and is connected with 
a vast association of gamblers that live upon the steamboats, 
and harass the country from Georgia to Louisiana, assessing the 
unwary traveller wherever they meet with him; and you know 
how many thoughtless, confident youth we have, who lose their 
money from an unwillingness to believe that they can be out¬ 
witted by their neighbor.” 

“My eye, as these words were spoken, caught that of Wil¬ 
liam, which turned away in confusion from my glance. I felt 
mischievous enough to relate our adventure at the Tuscaloosa 
tavern, but Colonel Grafton talked too well, and we were both 
too much interested in what he said, to desire to interrupt him. 
He proceeded: — 

“ It is even said and supposed by some that he does worse — 
that he robs where he can not win, and seizes where he can not 
cheat. I am not of this opinion. Rogues as well as honest 
men find it easy enough to get along in our country without 
walking the highway; and, though I know him to be bold 
enough to be a ruffian, I doubt whether such would be his pol¬ 
icy. My notion is that he is a successful gambler, and, as such, 
if you find him at home, I doubt not that you will get your 
money. At least, such is my hope, for your sake, as well as 
my own. If you do, Mr. Carrington, you will trust again, and 
I—yes — I will endorse again the poor man’s promise to pay.” 

“ And how far from you is the residence of this man 1” was 
my question. 


A FOREST HOME. 


141 


“From twelve to fourteen miles, and through a miserably 
wild country. I do not envy you the ride: you will have an 
up-hill journey of it full two thirds of the route, and a cheerless 
one throughout. I trust you may not take it in vain; but, 
whether you do or not, you must return this way. It is your 
nearest route to Columbus, and I can put you on your way by 
a short cut which you could not find yourself. I shall, of course, 
expect you.” 

Such was the amount of our conference with this excellent 
man that night. We separated at twelve o’clock — a late hour 
in the country, but the evening had passed too pleasantly to 
permit us to feel it so. A cheerful breakfast in the morning, 
and a renewal of all those pleasant thoughts and images which 
had fascinated us the night before, made us hesitate to leave 
this charming family ; and slow were the first movements which 
carried us from the happy territory. Well provided with di¬ 
rections for finding the way, and cautions to be circumspect and 
watchful, we set out for the dwelling of our suspicious debtor. 


112 


RICHARD HURDI3. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

MAT WEBBER. 

'Old Giaffar sat in his divan, 

Deep thought was in his ag6d eye; 

And though the face of mussulman 
]S T ot oft betrays to standers-by 
The mind within — well skilled to hide 
All but unconquerable pride — 

His pensive cheek and pondering brow 

Did more than he was wont avow.” — Bride of Abych* 

Ottr host had in no respect exaggerated the tediousness of 
dui* journey. Perhaps it became doubly so to us from the pleas¬ 
ant consciousness, fresh in our minds, of the few preceding hours 
which had been so unqualifiedly delightful. The hills rose be¬ 
fore us, and we felt it to be indeed toilsome to ascend them, 
when we knew that by such ascent we only threw them as bar¬ 
riers between us and the spot to which we both felt every dis¬ 
position to return. It is strange how susceptible to passing and 
casual influences are the strongest among us. Let our pride not 
rise in our path as a dogged opponent, and what flexibility is 
ours — what may we not become—what not achieve! How 
lovely will seem place and person, if, when they commend them¬ 
selves to our affections, they forbear to assail or offend our pride ! 
I could tear myself from the dwelling of my childhood—from 
the embrace of the fondest of mothers — from all the sympathies 
and ties to which I had been accustomed—yea, from the sight 
of her to whom all my hopes had been addressed — in obedience 
to this arbitrary influence; and, failing to derive even the cold¬ 
est satisfaction from friends, and family, and birthplace, could 
yet be sensible of pleasure derived from the contemplation of a 
strange home, and a passing intercourse with strangers. Per- 


MAT WEBBER. 


143 


haps it may be safe to assert that the greatest enemy to our 
affections is our mind. The understanding, even among the 
weakest — as if conscious of its superior destiny — will assert its 
sway, and sacrifice the heart which depends on it for life, in 
deference to that miserable vanity which lives only on its dis¬ 
eases. I have always been conscious of this sort of warfare 
going on with me. I have spoken the sarcasm to the loved 
one, even when my own bosom felt the injustice, and when my 
heart, with the keenest sympathy, quivered also with the pang. 

We had ridden, perhaps, an hour, and were winding our way 
down from gorge to gorge among a pile of hills of which there 
seemed to be no end, when we came suddenly upon three men 
sitting among the bushes at a little distance from the road-side. 
Two of them we knew at the first glance to be our chamber 
companions at Tuscaloosa. The third we had neither of us 
seen before. He was a short, thick-set person of black hair and 
unimposing features, presenting in his dress, a singular contrast 
to the trim and gaudy caparison of his comrades. They were 
sitting around a log, and may have been eating for aught we 
knew. They had something between them which called for 
their close scrutiny, and seemed so well to receive it that we 
completely surprised them. When they heard us, there was a 
visible start, and one of the two gamblers started to his feet. 
I rode on without giving them the least notice; but, thoughtless 
as ever, William half advanced to them, and in a good-humored, 
dare-devil style of expression, cried out to them aloud : — 

“ Halloo, my good fellows, do you feel like another game 
to-day.” 

What their answer was, and whether they sufficiently heard 
to understand his words or not, I can not say—they stood mo¬ 
tionless and watched our progress; and I conceived it fortunate 
that I Avas able to persuade my companion to ride on without 
farther notice. He did not relish the indifference with which 
they seemed to regard us, and a little pause and provocation 
might have brought us into a regular fight. Perhaps—the 
issue of our journey considered—such would have been a for¬ 
tunate event. We might not have suffered half so much as in 
the end we did. 

“ Now could I take either or both of those fellows by the 


144 


RICHARD HURDIS 


neck, and rattle their pates together, for the fun of it,” was the 
speech of my companion, as we rode off 

There was a needless display of valor in this, and my answer 
exhibited a more cautious temper. Bash enough myself at 
times, I yet felt the necessity of temperateness when in com¬ 
pany with one so very thoughtless as my friend. 

“ Ay, and soil your fingers and bruise your knuckles for your 
pains. If they are merely dirty dogs, you would surely soil 
your fingers, and if they were at all insolent, you would run 
some risk of getting them broken. The least we have to do 
with all such people, the better for all parties—I, at least, have 
no ambition to couple with them either in love or hostility. 
Enough to meet them in their own way when they cross the 
path, and prevent our progress.” 

“ Which these chaps will never do, I warrant you.” 

“We have less need to cross thairs — the way is broad enough 
for both of us. But let us on, since our road grows more ^level, 
though not less wild. I am tired of this jade pace—our nags 
will sleep at last, and stop at the next turning.” 

We quickened our pace, and, in another hour we approached 
the confines of our debtor’s habitation. We knew it by the 
generally sterile and unprepossessing aspect of everything 
around it. The description which Colonel Grafton had given 
us was so felicitous that we could have no doubts; and, riding 
up to the miserable cabin we were fortunate enough to meet in 
proper person the man we sought. 

He stood at the entrance, leaning sluggishly against one of 
the doorposts—a sliglitly-built person, of slovenly habits, an 
air coarse, inferior, unprepossessing, and dark lowering features. 
His dress was shabby, his hat mashed down on one side of his 
head — his arms thrust to the elbows in the pockets of his 
breeches, and he wore the moccasins of an Indian. Still, there 
was something in the keen, lively glances of his small black 
eye, that denoted a restless and quick character, and his thin, 
closely-pressed lips were full of promptness and decision. His 
skin was tanned almost yellow, and his long, uncombed but 
flowing hair, black as a coal, falling down upon his neck which 
was bare, suited well, while contrasting strongly with his 
swarthy lineaments. He received us with civility — advanced 


MAT WEBBER. 145 

fiom his tottering doorsteps on our approach, and held our 
horses while we dismounted. 

“You remember me, Mr. Webber?” said my companion call¬ 
ing him by name. . 

“ Mr. Carrington, I believe,” was the reply; “ I don’t forget 
easily. Let me take your horses, gentlemen ?” 

There was a composure in the fellow’s manners that almost 
amounted to dignity. Perhaps, this too was against him. 
Where should he learn such habits — such an air? Whence 
could come the assurance — the thorough ease and self-compla¬ 
cency of his deportment? Such confidence can spring from 
two sources only — the breeding of blood — the systematic hab¬ 
its of an unmingled family, admitting of no connection with 
strange races, and becoming aristocratic from concentration — 
or the recklessness of one indifferent to social claims, and obey¬ 
ing no other master than his own capricious mood. 

We were conducted into his cabin and provided with seats. 
Wretched and miserable as everything seemed about the prem¬ 
ises, our host showed no feeling of disquiet or concern on this 
account. He made no apology; drew forth the rude chairs 
covered with bull’s hides; and proceeded to get the whiskey 
and sugar, the usual beverage presented in that region to tho 
gnest. 

“ You have ridden far, and a sup of whiskey will do you 
good, gentlemen. From Tuscaloosa this morning—you’ve rid¬ 
den well.” 

William corrected his error by telling where we had stayed 
last night. A frown insensibly gathered above the brow of the 
man as he heard the name of Colonel Grafton. 

“ The colonel and myself don’t set horses now altogether,” 
was the quick remark, “he’s a rich — I’m a poor man.” 

“ And yet I should scarce think him the person to find cause 
of disagreement between himself and any man from a differ¬ 
ence of condition,” was the reply of William to this remark. 

“You don’t know him, Mr. Carrington, I reckon. For a 
long time I didn’t know him myself—I was his overseer you 
know, and it was then he put his name to that little bit of pa 
per, that I s’pose you come about now.” 

Carrington nodded. 


7 


J 46 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


“ Well,” contii ned the debtor, “ so long as I was his over¬ 
seer, things went on smoothly; but the colonel don’t like to see 
men setting up for themselves, and tried to keep me from it, but 
he couldn’t; and since I’ve left him, lie doesn’t look once in the 
year over to my side of the country. He don’t like me now, I 
know. Did you hear him say nothing about me ?” 

I could detect the keen black eye of the speaker, as he fin¬ 
ished, watching the countenance of Carrington as he waited for 
the reply. I feared that the perfect frankness of William might 
have betrayed him into a partial revelation of Colonel Grafton’s 
information; but he evaded the inquiry with some address. 

“Yes; he gave us full directions how to find your place, and 
warned us that we might not find you at home. He said you 
travelled a great deal about the country, and didn’t plant much. 
You deal in merchandise, perhaps ?” 

The fellow looked somewhat disappointed as he replied in the 
negative. But dismissing everything like expression from his 
face, in the next instant he asked if we had met with any trav¬ 
ellers on the road. I replied quickly by stating with the ut¬ 
most brevity, the fact that we had met three, whose appearance 
I briefly described without giving any particulars, and studious¬ 
ly suppressed the previous knowledge which we had of the gam¬ 
blers at Tuscaloosa; but I had scarcely finished wdien William, 
with his wonted thoughtlessness, took up the tale where I had 
left it incomplete and omitted nothing. The man looked grave, 
and when he was ended, contented himself with remarking that 
he knew no person like those described, and inquired if we had 
not met with others. But, with my wonted suspiciousness of 
habit, I fancied that there was a something in his countenance 
that told a different story, and whether there were reason for 
this fancy or not, I was inly persuaded that our debtor and the 
two gamblers were birds of a eatlier. It will be seen in the 
sequel that I was not mistaken There was an awkward pause 
in the conversation, for Carrington, like a man not accustomed 
to business, seemed loth to ask about his money. He was re 
lieved by the debtor. 

“Well, Mr. Carrington,” he said, “you come, I s’pcse, about 
that little paper of mine. You want your money, and, to say 
truth, you ought to have had it some time ago. I would hav*> 


MAT WEBBER. 147 

sent it to you, but I couldn’t get any safe hand going down into 
your parts.” 

Carrington interrupted him. 

“ That’s no matter, Mr. Webber, I didn’t want the money, to 
say truth, till just now; but, if you can let me have it now, it 
will be as good to me as if you had sent it to me six months 
ago. I’m thinking to buy a little land in Mississippi, if I can 
get it moderate, and can get a long credit for the best part of 
it, but it will be necessary to put down something, you know, 
to clinch the bargain, and I thought I might as well look to you 
for that.” 

“To be sure — certain—it’s only reasonable; but if you 
think to go into Mississippi to get land now on a long credit, 
and hardly any cash, Mr. Carrington, you’ll find yourself might¬ 
ily mistaken. You must put down the real grit, if you want to 
do anything in the land-market.” 

“ Oh, yes, I expect to put down some—” 

The acute glance of my eye arrested the speech of my 
thoughtless companion. In two minutes more he would prob¬ 
ably have declared the very amount he had in possession, and 
all the purposes he had in view. I do not know, however, but 
that the abrupt pause and silence which followed my interposi¬ 
tion, revealed quite as much to the cunning debtor as the words 
of my companion would have done. The bungling succession 
of half-formed and incoherent sentences which William uttered 
to hide the truth, and conceal that which, by this time, was 
sufficiently told, perhaps contributed to impress him with an 
idea of much greater wealth in our possession than was even the 
case. But, whatever may have been his thoughts, his counte¬ 
nance was too inflexibly indifferent to convey to us their char¬ 
acter. He was stolid and seemingly unobservant to the last 
degree, scarcely giving the slightest heed to the answers which 
his own remarks and inquiries demanded. At length, abrupt¬ 
ly returning to the business in hand, he spoke thus:— 

“ Well, now, Mr. Carrington, I’ll have to give you a little dis¬ 
appointment. I can’t pay you to-day, much as I would like to 
do it; for, you see, my money is owing to me, and is scattered 
all about the neighborhood. If you could take a bed with me 
to-night, anc be satisfied to put off travelling for a day, I could 


148 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


promise you, I think, for certain, to give you the whole of your 
money by to-morrow night. I can get it, for that matter, from 
a friend, but I should have to ride about fifteen or twenty miles 
for it, and that couldn’t be done to-day.” 

“Nor would I wish it, Mr. Webber,” was the reply of Wil¬ 
liam. “ To-morrow will answer, and though we are obliged 
to you for your offer of a bed to-night, yet we have a previous 
promise to return and spend the night with Colonel Grafton.” 

The brows of the man again blackened, but he spoke in cool, 
deliberate accents, though his language was that of enmity 
and dissatisfaction. 

“Ay, I supposed as much. Colonel Grafton has a mighty 
fine house, and everything in good fix — he can better accom¬ 
modate fine gentlemen than a poor man like me. You can do 
what you like about that, Mr. Carrington — stay with me to-night, 
or comeat mid-day to-morrow — all the same to me—you shall 
still have your money. I’ll get it for you, at all hazards, if it’s 
only to get rid of all further obligation to that man. I’ve been 
obligated to him too long already, and I’ll wipe out the score 
to-morrow, or I’m no man myself.” 

On the subject of Webber’s motive for paying his debt, the 
creditor, of course, had but little to say. But the pertinacity 
of the fellow on another topic annoyed me. 

“ You speak,” said I, “ of the greater wealth and better ac¬ 
commodations of Colonel Grafton, as prompting us to prefer his 
hospitality to yours. My good sir, why should you do us this 
wrong ? What do you see in either of us to think such things ? 
We are both poor men—poorer, perhaps, than yourself—I 
know I am, and believe that such, too, is the case with my com¬ 
panion.” 

“ Do you though ?” said the fellow, coolly interrupting me. 
I felt that my blood was warming; he, perhaps, saw it, for he 
instantly went on:— 

“ I don’t mean any offence to you, gentlemen—very far from 
it—but we all very well know what temptations ate in a rich 
man’s house more than those in a poor man’s. I’m a little 
jealous, you see, that’s all; for I look upon myself as just as 
good as Colonel Grafton any day, and to find people go from 
my door to look for his, is a sort of slight, you see, that I can’t 



MAT WEBBER. 


149 


always stomach. But I suppose you are another guess sort of 
people; and I should be sorry if you found anything amiss in 
what I say. I'm a poor man, it’s true, but, by God! I’m an 
honest one, and come when you will, Mr. Carrington, I’ll take 
up that bit of paper almost as soon as you bring it.” 

We drank with the fellow at parting, and left him on tolera¬ 
bly civil terms; but there was something about him which 
troubled and made me apprehensive and suspicious. His habits 
of life — as we saw them—but ill compared with the measured 
and deliberate manners and tone of voice which he habitually 
employed. The calmness and dignity of one, conscious of 
power and practised in authority, were conspicuous in every¬ 
thing he said and did. Such characteristics never mark the 
habitually unemployed man. What, then, were his occupa¬ 
tions] Time will show. Enough, for the present, to know 
that he was even then meditating as dark a piece of villany, as 
the domestic historian of the frontier was ever called upon t< 
record 


150 


RICHARD HURDIS, 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE OUTLAWS. 

“-They are a lawless brood, 

But rough in form nor mild in mood; 

And every creed and every race, 

With them hath found — may find a place.”— Byron. 

We liad not well departed from the dwelling of the debtor 
before it was occupied by the two gamblers, whose merits we 
had discovered in Tuscaloosa, and the third person whom we 
had seen with them on the road-side. They had watched and 
followed our steps; and by a better knowledge of the roads 
than we possessed, they had been enabled to arrive at the same 
spot without being seen, and to lurk in waiting for the moment 
of our departure before they made their appearance. No soon¬ 
er were we gone, however, than they emerged from their place 
of concealment, and made for the house. A few words sufficed 
to tell their story to their associate, for such he was. 

“ Do you know the men that have left you ? What was their 
business with you V' 

They were answered; and they then revealed what they 
knew. They dwelt upon the large sum in bills which William 
had incautiously displayed to their eyes; and, exaggerating its 
amount, they insisted not the less upon the greater amount 
which they assumed, nay, asserted, to be in my possession — a 
prize, both sums being considered, which they coolly enough 
contended, would be sufficient to reward them for the most ex¬ 
treme and summary efforts to obtain it. 

“We must pursue them instantly,” said the scoundrel, who 
had sought to bully us at the tavern. “ There are four of us, 
and we can soon overhaul them.” 

“ They are armed to the teeth, George,” said our debtor. 


THE OUTLAWS. 


151 


“We have seen to that,” was the reply. “Ben had an op¬ 
portunity to inspect their pistols, which they wisely left in their 
chamber when they went down to eat; and with his usual desire 
to keep his neighbors from doing harm, he knocked out the pri¬ 
ming, and for the old flints, he put in fine new ones, fashioned 
out of wood. These will do no mischief, I warrant you, to any¬ 
body, and so let us set on. If my figures do not fail me, these 
chaps have money enough alout them to pay our way, for 
the next three months, from Tennessee to New Orleans and 
back.” 

His proposal was seconded by his immediate companions, but 
the debtor, with more deliberateness and effectual judgment, 
restrained them. 

“ Pm against riding after them now, though all be true, as you 
say, about the money in their hands.” 

“ What! will you let them escape us ? Are you growing 
chicken, Mat., in your old days ? You refuse to be a striker , do 
you ? It’s beneath your wisdom and dignity, I suppose 1” said 
our bullying gambler, who went by the name of George. 

“ Shut up, George, and don’t be foolish,” was the cool re¬ 
sponse. “ You ought to know me by this time, and one thing 
is certain, I know enough of you ! You talk of being a striker ! 
Why, man, you mistake ! You’re a chap for a trick—for ma¬ 
king a pitfall — but not for shoving the stranger into it! Be 
quiet, and I’ll put you at your best business. These men come 
back here at mid-day to-morrow !” 

“ Ha ! —the devil they do !” 

“Ay; they dine with me, and then return to Colonel Graf¬ 
ton’s. To one of them, as I told you — the younger of the two, 
a full-faced, good-natured looking fellow — I owe a hundred or 
two dollars. He hopes to get it by coming. Now, it’s for you 
to say if he will or not. I leave it to you. I can get the mon¬ 
ey easily enough ; and if you’ve got any better from that camp¬ 
meeting that you went to, on the ’Bigby, you will probably say 
I ought to pay him, but if not—” 

“Pshaw!” was the universal answer. “What nonsense! 
Pay the devil! The very impudence of the fellow in coming 
here to make collections, should be enough to make us cut his 
throat.” 


152 


RICHARD HURDI8. 


“ Shall we do that, men ?” was the calm inquiry of the 
debtor. 

“It’s best!” was the bloody answer of the gambler, George. 
Cowarcis of bad morals are usually the most sanguinary people, 
when passion prompts and opportunity occurs. " I’m clear,” 
continued the same fellow, “for making hash of these chaps. 
There is one of them—the slenderer fellow with the long nose, 
[meaning me]—his d—d insolence to me in Tuscaloosa is 
enough to convict him. The sooner we fix him the better.” 

“ George seems unwilling to give that chap a chance. I 
rather think it would be better to let him go in order that the 
two might fight out their quarrel. Eh, George ! what say you?” 

The host proposed a cutting question, but in his own cool 
and measured manner. It did not seem to fall harmlessly upon 
the person to whom it was addressed. His features grew dark¬ 
ly red with the ferocity of his soul, but his reply was framed 
with a just knowledge of the fearless nature of the man who 
had provoked him. 

“ You know, Mat, I can fight well enough when it pleases me 
to do so.” 

“ True,” was the answer; “ nobody denies that. I only 
meant to say that you don’t often find pleasure in it; nor, in¬ 
deed, George, do I: and that’s one reason which I have for dis¬ 
agreeing with you about these stranger-chaps.” 

“ What!” said one of the companions, “ you won’t lift ?” 

“ Who says I won’t ? To be sure I will. We’ll lift what we 
can, and empty the sack; but I’m not for slitting any more 
pipes if I can help it — not in this neighborhood at least.” 

“ Mat’s going to join the methodists. He’ll eat devil’s broth, 
but dip no meat,” said George. 

“No — if it’s needful, I’ll eat both; but one I don’t like so 
much as the other, and, when I can get the one without the 
other, I’ll always prefer to do so.” 

“ But they’ll blab.” 

“ So they may; but what care we about that, when we’re 
going where they can’t find us ? Let us keep them quiet till 
to-morrow midnight, and then they may use their pipes quite 
as much as they please. By that time we shall all be safe in the 
‘ nation,’ and the sheriff may whistle for us.” 


THE OUTLAWS. 


153 


“ Well, as to that part of the plan,” said George, “ I’m op¬ 
posed to it now, and have always been against it. I see no 
reason to leave a country where we’ve done, and where we’re 
still doing, so excellent a business.” 

‘‘What business?—no striking for a week or more!” said 
one of the party. 

“ But what’s the chance to-morrow ? These very chaps show 
iis the goodness of the business we may do by holding on a 
time longer. Here’s hundreds going for the ‘ nation’ and there¬ 
abouts every week, and most of them have the real stuff. They 
sell out in the old states, raise all the cash they can, and give 
us plenty of picking if we’ll look out and wait for it. But we 
mustn’t be so milk-hearted. There’s no getting on in safety if 
we only crop the beast’s tail and let it run. We can stay here 
six months longer, if we stop the mouth of the sack when we 
empty it.” 

“ Ah, George, you are quite too brave in council, and too full 
of counsel in the field,” was the almost indifferent reply of the 
debtor; “ to stay here six weeks, would be to hang us all. The 
people are getting too thick and too sober between this and 
’Bigby. They’ll cut us off from running after a while. Now, you 
are too brave to run; you’d rather fight and die any day than 
that. Not so with me : I’m for lifting and striking anywhere, 
so long as the back door’s open; but the moment you shut up 
that, I’m for other lodgings. But enough of this. We’ve made 
the law for going already, and it’s a mere waste of breath to 
talk over that matter now. There’s other business before us, 
and, if you’ll let me, we’ll talk about that.” 

“ Crack away !” was the answer. 

“ These lads come here to-morrow—they dine with me. The 
old trick is the easiest: we’ll rope them to their chairs, and 
then search their pockets. They carry their bills in their bo¬ 
soms, I reckon; and if they’ve got specie, it’s in the saddle¬ 
bags. We can rope them, rob them, and leave them at table. 
All the expense is a good dinner, and we’ll leave them that too, 
as it will be some hours, I reckon, before anybody will come 
along to help them out of their hobble, and they’ll be hungry 
when their first trouble’s fairly over. By that time, we’ll be 
mighty nigh Columbus j and if the lads have the money you 

7 # 


154 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


say they have, it will help us handsomely through the ‘ nation.’ 
It will be a good finishing stroke to our business in this quar¬ 
ter.” 

The plan thus briefly stated was one well understood by the 
fraternity, as it had been practised in their robberies more than 
once before; and it received the general approbation. The 
bully, George, was opposed to leaving us alive, but he was com¬ 
pelled to yield his bloody wishes in compliance with the more 
humane resolution of the rest. 

“ I am against cutting more throats than I can help, George,” 
said the calculating host; “ it’s a dirty practice, and I don’t 
like it, as it’s always so hard for me to clean my hands and 
take the spots out of my breeches. Besides, I hate to see a 
man dropped like a bullock, never to get up again. There’s 
only one chap in the world that I have such a grudge against 
that I should like to shed his blood, and even him I should for¬ 
give if he was only willing to bend his neck when a body meets 
him, and say ‘ How d’ye do V with civility.” 

“ Who’s that, Bill ?” demanded George. 

“ No matter about the name. If I have to cut his throat, I 
don’t, care to trouble you to help me.” 

“ I’m willing.” 

“Ay, if I hold him for the knife. Enough, George—we’ll 
try you to-morrow. You shall have the pleasure of dropping 
the slip over that fellow with the long nose. See that you do 
it bravely. If you don’t pinion his arms, you may feel his 
elbow, and he looks very much like a chap that had bone and 
muscle to spare.” 

“ I’ll see to that—but suppose they refuse to dine ?” was the 
suggestion of the bully. 

“ Why, then, we must take them when at the drink, or as 
they go through the passage. You must watch your chance, 
and choose the moment you like best; but you who are the 
strikers must be careful to move together. If you miss a min¬ 
ute, you may have trouble, for one will certainly come to help 
the other, and it may compel us to use the knife at last.” 

“ It’s a shorter way to use it at first,” said George. 

“ Perhaps so—but let me tell you it lasts much longer. The 
business is not dead with the man; and when you have done 


THE OUTLAWS. 


156 


that sort of thing once or twice, you’ll find that it calls for you 
to do a great deal more business of different kinds which will 
be not only troublesome but disagreeable. I tell you, as I told 
you before, it is the very devil to wash out the stains.” 

This affair settled, others of like nature, but of less immediate 
performance, came up for consideration; but these need not be 
related now. One fact, however, may be stated. When they 
had resolved upon our robbery, they set themselves down to 
play for the results; and, having made a supposed estimate of 
our effects, they staked their several shares in moderate sums, 
and won and lost the moneys which they were yet to steal! It 
may be added that my former opponent, the bully George, was 
one of the most fortunate; and, having won the right from his 
comrades to the spoils which they were yet to win, he was the 
most impatient for the approach of the hour when his winnings 
were to be realized. Let us now relate our own progress. 


156 


RTCHARD HUROIB. 


JHAPTER XXL 

THE HAPPY FAMILY. 

“So thy fair hand, enamored fancy gleans 
The treasured pictures of a thousand scenes 
Thy pencil traces on the lover’s thought 
Some cottage home, from towns and toil remote. 

Where love and peace may claim alternate hours 
With peace embosom’d in Tdalian bowers! 

Remote from busy life’s bewildered way 
O’er all his heart shall taste and beauty sway — 

Free on the sunny slope, or winding shore, 

With hermit steps to wonder and adore.”— Campbell. 

On our return to Colonel Grafton’s, we were received with a 
welcome due rather to a long and tried intimacy than to our 
new acquaintance. There we met a Mr. Clifton — a young 
man about twenty-five years of age — of slight, but elegant 
figure, and a face decidedly one of the most handsome I had 
ever seen among men. It was evident to me after a little 
space that such also was the opinion of Julia Grafton. Her 
eyes, when an opportunity offered, watched him narrowly ; and 
I was soon enabled to see that the gentleman himself was as¬ 
siduous in those attentions which are apt enough to occasion 
love, and to yield it opportunity. I learned casually in the 
course of the evening, and after the young man had retired, what 
I had readily inferred from my previous observation—namely 
that they had been for some time known to each other. Mr. 
Clifton’s manners were good—artless exceedingly, and frank, 
and he seemed in all respects, a perfect and pleasing gentleman. 
He left us before night, alleging a necessity to ride some miles 
on business which admitted of no delay. I could see the dis¬ 
appointment in the cheek of Julia, and the quivering of her 
lovely lips was not entirely concealed. That night she sang 





THE HAPPY FAMILY. 


157 


us a plaintive ditty, to tlie mi.sic of an ancient, but n( bly-toned 
harpsichord, and trembling but anticipative love was tne burden 
of her song. The obvious interest of these two in each other, 
had the effect of carrying me back to Marengo — but the vision 
which encountered me there drove me again into the wilder¬ 
ness and left me no refuge but among strangers. I fancied that 
I beheld the triumphant joy of John Hurdis; and the active 
and morbid imagination completed the cruel torture by showing 
me Mary Easterby locked in his arms. My soul shrank from 
the portraiture of my fancy, and I lapsed away into gloom and 
silence in defiance of all the friendly solicitings of our host 
and his sweet family. 

But my companion had no such suffering as mine, and he 
gave a free rein to his tongue. He related to Colonel Grafton 
the circumstances attending our interview with the debtor, not 
omitting the remarks of the latter in reference to the colonel 
himself. 

“ It matters not much,’* said the colonel, “ what he thinks of 
me, but the truth is, he has not told you the precise reason of 
his hostility. The pride of the more wealthy is always insisted 
upon by the poorer sort of people, to account for any differences 
between themselves and their neighbors. It is idle to answer 
them on this head. They themselves know better. If they 
confessed that the possession of greater wealth was an occasion 
for their constant hate or dislike they would speak more to the 
purpose, and with far more justice. Not that I think that 
Webber hates me because I am wealthy. He spends daily 
quite as much money as I do — but he can not so well convince 
his neighbors that he gets it as honestly; and still less can he 
convince me of the fact. In his own consciousness lies my 
sufficient justification for the distance at which I keep him, and 
for that studied austerity of deportment on my part of which 
he so bitterly complains. I am sorry for my own sake, not less 
than his, that I am forced to the adoption of a habit which is 
not natural to me and far from agreeable. It gives me no less 
pain to avoid any of my neighbors than it must give them of¬ 
fence. But I act from a calm conviction of duty, and this fel¬ 
low knows it. Let us say no more about him. It is enough 
that he promts to pay you your money—he can do it if he 


158 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


will; and I doubt not that lie will keep his promise, simply be¬ 
cause my name is on his paper. It will be a matter of pride 
with him to relieve himself of an obligation to one who offends 
his self-esteem so greatly as to provoke him to complaint.” 

About ten o’clock the next day we left Colonel Grafton’s for 
the dwelling of the debtor. He rode a mile or two with us, 
and on leaving us renewed his desire that we should return and 
spend the night with him. His residence lay in our road, and 
we readily made the promise. 

“ Could I live as Grafton lives,” said William, after our friend 
had left us — “ could I have such an establishment, and such a 
family, and be such a man, it seems to me I should be most 
happy. He wants for nothing that he has not, he is beloved 
by his family, and has acquired so happily the arts of the 
household—and there is a great deal in that—that he can not 
but be happy. Everything is snug, and everything seems to fit 
about him. Nothing is out of place; and wife, children, ser¬ 
vants— all, not only seem to know their several places, but to 
delight in them.. There is no discontent in that family; and 
that dear girl, Julia, how much she reminds me of Emmeline — 
what a gentle being, yet how full of spirit—how graceful and 
light in her thoughts and movements, yet how true, how firm.” 

I let my friend run on in his eulogy without interruption. 
The things and persons which had produced a sensation of so 
much pleasure in his heart, had brought but sorrow and dissat¬ 
isfaction to mine. His fancy described his own household, in 
similarly bright colors to his mind and eye — whilst my thoughts, 
taking their complexion from my own denied and defeated for¬ 
tunes, indulged in gloomy comparisons of what I saw in the 
possession of others, and the cold, cheerless fate — the isolation 
and the solitude—of all my future life. How could I appre¬ 
ciate the enthusiasm of my friend — how share in his raptures? 
Every picture of bliss to the eye of the sufferer is provocation 
and bitterness. I felt it such and replied querulously: — 

“Your raptures may be out of place, William, for aught you 
know. What folly to judge of surfaces! But your young 
traveller always does so. Who shall say what discontent reigns 
in that family, in the absence of the stranger ? There may be 
bitterness and curses, for aught you know, in many a bosom. 


THE HAPrY PA MILS' 


159 


the possessor of which meets you with a smile and cheers you 
with a song — and that girl Julia — she is beautiful you say — 
hut is she blest ? She loves — you see that! — Is it certain that 
she loves wisely, worthily — that she wins the object of her 
love—that he does not deceive her--or that she does not jilt 
him in some moment of bitter perversity and chafing passion? 
Well did the ancient declare, that the happiness of man could 
never be estimated till the grave had closed over him.” 

“ The fellow was a fool to say that, as if the man could be 
happy then. But I can declare him false from my own bosom. 
I am happy now, and am resolved to be more so, Look you, 
Dick — in two weeks more I will be in Marengo. I shall have 
entered my lands, and made my preparations. In four weeks 
Emmeline will be mine; and then, hey for an establishment 
like Grafton’s. All shall be peace and sweetness about my 
dwelling as about his. I will lay out my grounds in the same 
manner — I will bring Emmeline to see his—” 

I ventured to interrupt the dreamer: “ Suppose she does not 
like them as much as you do ? Women have their OAvn modes 
of thinking and planning these matters. Will you not give her 
her own way V* 

He replied good-naturedly but quickly: “ Oh, surely; but 
she will like them—I know she will. They are entirely to 
her taste; and, whether they be or not, she shall have her own 
way in that. You do not suppose I would insist upon so small 
a matter ?’* 

“ But it was anything but a small matter while you were 
dwelling upon the charms of Colonel Grafton’s establishment. 
The grounds make no small part of its charms in both our eyes, 
and I wonder that you should give them up so readily.” 

“ I do not give them up, Richard. I will let Emmeline know 
how much I like them, and will insist upon them as long as I 
can in reason. But, however lovely I think them, do not sup¬ 
pose that I count them as anything in comparison of the family 
beauty — the harmony that makes the circle a complete system, 
in which the lights are all clear and lovely, and the sounds all 
sweet and touching. ’ 

“ I will sooner admit your capacity to lay out your grounds 
as tastefully as Colonel Grafton, than to bring about such results 


160 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


in your family, whatever it may be. You are not Colonel Graf¬ 
ton, William: you lack his prudence, his method, his experi¬ 
ence, his years. The harmony of one’s household depends 
greatly upon the discretion and resolve of its master. Heaven 
knows I wish you happy, William; but, if you promise yourself 
a home like that of this gentleman, you must become a cooler 
headed and far more prudent personage than any of your friends 
esteem you now. You are amiable enough, and therefore wor¬ 
thy to have such a family; but you are not grave enough to 
create its character, and so to decree and impel as to make the 
lights revolve harmoniously in your circle, and call forth the 
music in its place. Your lights will sometimes annoy you by 
their glare, or go out when you most need their assistance; and 
your music will ring in your ears at times when your evening 
nap seems to you the most desirable enjoyment in nature. Joy 
itself is known to surfeit, and you, unhappily, are not a man to 
feed in moderation.” 

He received my croakings with good nature, and laughed 
heartily at my predictions. 

“ You are a sad boy, Richard; you are quite too philosophi¬ 
cal ever to be happy,” was his good-natured reply. “ You 
analyze matters too closely. You must not subject the things 
which give you pleasure to a too close inspection of your mind, 
or ten to one you despise them. The mind has but little to do 
with the affections—the less the better. I would rather not 
think, but only believe, where I have set my heart. It is so 
sweet to confide — it is so worrying to doubt! It appears to 
me, now, for example, that the fruit plucked by Eve, producing 
all the quarrel between herself and daddy Adam, was from the 
tree of jealousy.” 

“What a transition!” was my reply. “You have brought 
down your generalization to a narrow and very selfish point. 
But give your horse the spur, I pray you — when your theme 
becomes domestic, I feel like a gallop.” 

He pricked his steed, in compliance with my wish; but the 
increased pace of our horses offered no interruption to his dis¬ 
course on a subject so near his heart. He continued to speak 
in the same fashion : — 

“ Once fairly married, Dicky, you will see how grave I can 


THE HAPPY FAMILY. 


161 


be. I will then become a public man. You will hear of me as 
a commissioner of the poor, of roads, bridges, and ferries. I 
will get up a project for an orphan-asylum in Marengo, and 
make a speech or two at the muster-ground in favor of an insti¬ 
tute for coupling veteran old maids and inveterate old bache¬ 
lors together’ The women will name all their first children 
after me, and in five years I will be godfather to half Marengo. 
You smile—you will see! And then, Dick, when Emmeline 
gives me a dear little brat of our own—ah, Dick !—” 

He struck the spur into his steed, and the animal bounded 
up the hill, as if a wing, like that in the soul of his master, was 
lifting him forward and upward without his own exertions. I 
smiled, with a sad smile, at the entlmsiast-lover; and bitterly 
did his dream of delight force me to brood over my own expe¬ 
rience of disappointment. The brightness of his hope was like 
some glowing and breathing flower cast upon the grave of mine. 
I could almost have quarrelled with him for his joy on such a 
subject. Little did he or I think, poor fellow, that his joy was 
but a dream — that the doom of denial, nor of denial merely, 
was already written by the fates against him ! Terrible indeed, 
with a sudden terribleness — when I afterward reflected upon 
his boyish ardor — appeared to me the sad fate which lay, as it 
were, in the very path over which he was bounding with de¬ 
light ! Could he or I have lifted the thick veil at that moment, 
how idle would have appeared all his hopes — how much more 
idle my despondency ! 


162 


RICHARD HURD1S. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

SAVAGE PASSIONS. 

* I hate him for he is a Christian — 

But more, for that, in low simplicity, 

He lends out money gratis, and brings down 
The rate of usance here with us in Venice. 

If I can catch him once upon the hip, 

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him 1” 

Merchant of Venice. 

We at length reached the dwelling of our debtor. He re¬ 
ceived us as before, with a plain, rude indifference of manner, 
mingled with good nature nevertheless, that seemed willing to 
give pleasure, however unwilling to make any great exertion 
for it. There was nothing to startle our apprehension, or make 
us suspicious. Nobody appeared, save the host, who played 
his part to admiration. He would have carried our horses to 
the stable, but we refused to suffer him to do so, alleging our 
intention to ride back to Colonel Grafton’s as soon as possible. 

“ What! not before dinner ?—you will surely stay and dine 
with me. I have prepared for you.” 

The rascal spoke truly. He had prepared for us with a ven¬ 
geance. I would have declined, for I did not like (though, to 
confess a truth, I did not distrust) appearances. But finding us 
hesitate, and fearing probably to lose his prey, he resorted to a 
suggestion which at once determined us. 

“ I’m afraid, if you can’t stop for dinner, I can’t let you havo 
the money to-day. A neighbor of mine, to whom I lent it a 
month ago, promised to bring it by meal-time; and, as he lives 
a good bit off, I don’t look for him before.” 

This, uttered with an air of indifference, settled our irresolu 
tion. The idea of coming back again to such a place, and so 


SAVAGE PASSIONS. 


163 


wasting another day, was anything but agreeable, and we re¬ 
solved to stay by all means, if by so doing we could effect our 
object. Still, as we were bent to ride, as soon as we had got 
the money, we insisted that he should not take our horses, which 
were fastened to the swinging limbs of a shady tree before the 
entrance, in instant readiness for use. This preparatory con¬ 
ference took place at the door. We then entered the hovel, 
which it will be necessary, in order to detail following events, 
briefly to describe. In this particular, our task is easy — the 
arts of architecture, in the southwestern country, being of no 
very complicated character. The house, as I have said before, 
was built of logs — unhewn, unsquared, rude, ill-adjointed — the 
mere hovel of a squatter, who cuts down fine trees, spoils a 
good site, and establishes what he impudently styles his im¬ 
provements ! It consisted of a single story, raised upon blocks 
four feet from the ground, having an entrance running through 
the centre of the building, with apartments on either hand. To 
the left-hand apartment, which was used as a hall, was attached 
at each end a little lean-to, or shed, the doors to which opened 
at once upon the hall. These rooms were possibly meant as 
sleeping-apartments, nothing being more common in the South¬ 
west than such additions for such purposes. In this instance, 
however, all regard to appearances seemed to have been neg¬ 
lected, since, in attaching the shed to each end of the hall, one 
of these ugly excrescences was necessarily thrown upon the 
front of the building, which, without such an incumbrance, was 
already sufficiently uncouth and uninviting. If the exterior of 
this fabric was thus unpromising, what could be said of it with¬ 
in ? It was a mere shell. There was no ceiling to the hall, 
and the roof which covered it was filled with openings that let 
in the generous sunlight, and with undiscriminating liberality 
would have let in any quantity of rain. The furniture consisted 
of an old sideboard, garnished with a couple of common decan¬ 
ters, a pitcher with the mouth broken off, and some three or 
four cracked tumblers. A rickety table was stationary in the 
centre of the room, which held, besides, some half-dozen high- 
backed and low-bottomed chairs, the seats of which were cov¬ 
ered with untanned deerskins. 

Into these we squatted with little ceremony. Our host placed 


164 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


before us a bundle of cigars. I did not smoke, and declined to 
partake; but my companion joined him, and the two puffed 
away cosily together, to my great annoyance. Meanwhile an 
old negro wench made her appearance, spread a cloth which 
might have been clean in some earlier period of the world’s 
history, but which was inconceivably dirty now, and proceeded 
to make other shows, of a like satisfactory nature, of the prom¬ 
ised dinner. The cloth was soon laid — plates, dishes, knives 
and forks, produced from the capacious sideboard; and, this 
done, she proceeded to fill the decanter from a jug which she 
brought from the apartment opposite. She then retired to make 
her final preparations for the feast. 

To join with him in a glass of whiskey was the next proceed¬ 
ing, and, setting us a hearty example by half filling his own 
glass, he would have insisted upon our drinking with equal lib¬ 
erality. Fortunately for me, at least, I was stubborn in my 
moderation. I was not moderate from prudence, but from fas¬ 
tidiousness. In the society and house of one whom I esteemed 
more than I did the vulgar creature who sought to persuade 
me, I feel and confess I should have been more self-indulgent. 
But I could not stomach well the whiskey of the person whose 
frequent contact I found it so difficult to endure. I should not 
have drunk with him at all, but that I was unwilling to give 
offence. Such might have been the case in the event of my 
refusal, had it been his cue to quarrel. 

We drank, however, and resumed our seats; our host with a 
sang-froid which seemed habitual, if not natural, dashing into 
speech without any provocation. 

“ So you’re going back to Colonel Grafton’s, are you l He’s 
a mighty great man now-a-days, and it’s no wonder you young 
men like him. It’s natural enough for young men to like great 
men, particularly when they’re well off, and have handsome 
daughters. You’ve looked hard upon Miss Julia, I reckon V* 

I said nothing, but Carrington replied in a jocular manner, 
which I thought rather too great a concession of civility to such 
a creature. He continued : — 

“ Once, tc tell you a dog-truth , I rather did like him myself. 
He was a gentleman, to say the littlest for him; and, dang it! 
he made me feel it always when I stood before him. It was 


SAVAGE PASSIONS. 


165 


that very thing that made me come to dislike him. I stood it 
well enough while I worked for him, but after I left him the 
case was different — I didn’t care to have such a feeling when 
I set up business for myself. And then he took it upon him to 
give me advice, and to talk to me about reports going through 
the neighborhood, and people’s opinions of me, and all that 

d-d sort of stuff, just as if he was my godfather. I kicked at 

that, and broke loose mighty soon. I told him my mind, and 
then he pretty much told me his — for Grafton’s no coward — 
and so we concluded to say as little to one another as we well 
could spare.” 

“ The wisest and safest course for both of you, I doubt not,” 
was Carrington’s remark. 

“ As for the safety now, Mr. Carrington,” replied the debtor, 
“ that’s neither here nor there. I would not give this stump of 
tobacco for any better security than my eyes and fingers against 
Grafton, or any other man in the land. I don’t ask for any pro¬ 
tection from the laws—I won’t be sued, and I don’t sue. Catch 
me going to the ’squire to bind my neighbor’s fist or fingers. 
Let him use them as he pleases; all I ask is good notice before¬ 
hand, a fair field, and no favor. Let him hold to it then, and 
see who first comes bottom upward.” 

“ You are confident of your strength,” was my remark, “ yet 
I should not think you able to match with Colonel Grafton. 
He seems to me too much for you. He has a better frame, and 
noble muscle.” 

Not displeased at what might look like personal disparage¬ 
ment, the fellow replied with cool good nature 

“ Ah, you’re but a young beginner, stranger, though it may 
be a bold one! For a first tug or two, Grafton might do well 
enough ; but his breath wouldn’t hold him long. His fat is too 
thick about his ribs to stand it out. I’d be willing to run the 
risk of three tugs with him to have a chance at the fourth. By 
my grinders, but I would gripe him then. You should then see 
a death-hug, stranger, if you never saw it before.” 

The fellow’s teeth gnashed as he spoke, and his mouth was 
distorted, and his eyes glared with an expression absolutely 
fiendish. At the same moment, dropping the end of the segar 
from his hand, he stuck forth his half-contracted fingers, as if in 


166 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


the effort to grasp his opponent’s throat; and I almost fancied, 
I heheld the wolf upon his leap. The nails of his fingers had 
not been cut for a month, and looked rather like the claws of a 
wild beast than the proper appendages of a man. 

“ You seem to hate him very much,” was my unnecessary re¬ 
mark. I uttered it almost unconsciously. It prompted him to 
further speech. 

“I do hate him,” was the reply, “more than I hate anything 
besides in nature. I don’t hate a bear, for I can shoot him; 
nor a dog, for I can scourge him; nor a horse, for I can manage 
him; nor a wild hull, for I have taken him by the horns when 
he was maddest. But I hate that man, Grafton, by the eternal! 
and I hate him more because I can’t manage him in any way 
He’s neither bear, nor bull, nor dog —not so dangerous, yet 
more difficult than all. I’d give all I’m worth, and that’s some¬ 
thing, though you don’t see it, perhaps, only to meet him as a 
bear, as a bull, as a dog—ay, by the hokies, as all three to¬ 
gether ! — and let us all show after our own fashion, what we 
are good for. I’d lick his blood that day, or he should lick 
mine.” 

“ It seems to me,” I replied, and my looks and language must 
both have partaken largely of the unmitigated disgust within my 
soul—“It seems to me strange, indeed, how any man, having 
the spirit of manhood, should keep such a hatred as that fester¬ 
ing in his heart, without seeking to work it out! Why, if you 
hate him, do you not fight him ?” 

“That’s well enough said, young master!” he cried, without 
hearing me to the end—“but it’s easier to say that, and to de¬ 
sire it, than to get it! Fight it out, indeed! — and how am I 
to make him fight 1 send him a challenge 1 Ha! ha! ha i 
Why, he’d laugh at it, and so would you, young sir, if he 
showed you the challenge, while you happened to be in the 
house. His wife would laugh, and his daughter would laugh, 
and even nigger Tom would laugh. You’d have lots of fun 
over it. Ha! ha! a challenge from Mat. Webber to Colonel 
John Grafton, Grafton Lodge! What a joke for my neighbor 
democrats ! Every rascal among them—each of whom would 
fight you to-morrow, sir, if you ventured to say they were not 
perfectly your equal—would )et laugh to split their sides tc 


SAVAGE PASSIONS. 


167 


think of the impudence of that poor devil, Webbei, in chal¬ 
lenging Colonel John Grafton, ’Squire Grafton, tlie great 
planter of Grafton Lodge! Oh, no, sir! that’s all my eye. 
There’s no getting a light out of my enemy in that way. You 
must think of some other fashion for righting poor men in this 
country.” 

There was certainly some truth in what the fellow said. He 
felt it, but he seemed no longer angry. Bating a sarcastic grin, 
and a slight and seemingly nervous motion of his fingers, which 
accompanied the words, they were spoken with a coolness al¬ 
most amounting to good nature. I had, meanwhile, got some 
what warmed by the viperous malignity which he had indicate! 
toward a gentleman, who, as you have seen, had won greatly 
upon my good regards ; and, without paying much attention to 
the recovered ease and quiet of the fellow—so entirely different 
from the fierce and wolfish demeanor which had marked him but 
a few moments before — I proceeded, in the same spirit in which 
I had begun, to reply to him :— 

“ Had you heard me out, sir, you would, perhaps, have spared 
your speech. I grant you that it might be a difficult, if not an 
impossible thing to bring Mr. Grafton to a meeting; but this 
difficulty would not arise, I imagine, from any difference be 
tween you of wealth or station. No mere inequalities of for¬ 
tune would deprive any man of his claim to justice in any field, 
or my own affairs would frequently subject me to such depriva¬ 
tion. There must be something besides this, which makes a 
man incur a forfeiture of this sort.” 

“Yes, yes,” he replied instantly, with surprising quickness; 
“ I understand what you would say. The world must esteem 
me a gentleman.” 

“Precisely,” was my careless reply. The fellow looked 
gravely upon me for an instant, but smoothing down his brow, 
which began to grow wrinkled, he proceeded in tones as indif¬ 
ferent as before. 

“I confess to you, I’m no gentleman—t don’t pretend to it 

_X wasn’t born one and can’t afford to take up the business. 

It costs too much in clothes, in trinkets, in fine linen, in book- 
learning, and other matters.” 

I was about to waste a few sentences upon him to show that 


168 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


these were not the requisites of gentility, but he spared me any 
such foolish labor by going on thus:— 

“ That’s neither here nor there. You were going to tell me 
of some way by which I could get my revenge out of Grafton. 
Let’s hear your ideas about that. That’s the hitch.” 

“ Not your revenge; I spoke of redress for wrong.” 

“Well, well,” he replied, shaking his head, “names for the 
same things, pretty much, but, as you please. Only tell me 
how, if you are no gentleman — mark that! I don’t want the 
revenge—the redress, I mean, of a gentleman — I want the re¬ 
dress of a man — tel] me how I am to get it, when the person 
who has wronged me, thinks me too much beneath him to meet 
me on a fair ground! What’s my remedy ? Tell me that, and 
I’ll give you my thanks, and call you a mighty clever fellow in 
the bargain I” 

His insolence annoyed me, and he saw it in my quick reply 
— “I thank you, sir, I can spare the compliment—” 

He grinned good-naturedly: “You a poor man!” he ex¬ 
claimed, interrupting me. “ By the hokies, you ought to be 
rich; and your mother must have had some mighty high no¬ 
tions when she carried you ! But go on. I ask your pardon. 
Go on.” 

I should not have complied with the fellow’s wish, but that 
I felt a secret desire which I could not repress, to goad him for 
his insolence: “Well, sir, I say that I see no difficulty, if the 
person injured has the commonest spirit of manhood in him, in 
getting redress from a man who has injured him, whatever be 
his station. I am convinced, if you seriously wish for it, you 
could get yours from Grafton. There is such a thing, you 
know, as taking the road of an enemy.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! and what would that come to, or rather what 
do you think it would bring me to, here in Tuscaloosa county ? 
I’ll tell you in double quick time—the gallows. It wouldn’t 
bring you to the gallows, or any man passing for a gentleman, 
but democrats can’t bear to see democrats taking upon them¬ 
selves the airs of gentlemen. They’d hang me, my good friend, 
if they didn’t burn me beforehand; and that would be the up¬ 
shot of following your counsel. But your talk isn’t new to me; 
I have thought of it long before. Ho you think—but to talk 


SAVAGE PASSIONS. 


169 


about what you didn’t do, is mighty little business To put a 
good deal in a small calabash, let me tell you, then, that Mat 
Webber isn’t the man to sit down and suck his thumbs when 
his neighbor troubles him, if so be he can help himself in a 
quicker way. I’ve turned over all this matter in my mind, and 
I’ve come to this conclusion, that I must wait for some odd hour 
when good luck is willing to do what she has never done yet, 
and gives me a chance at my enemy. Be certain when that 
hour comes, stranger, my teeth shall meet in the flesh!” 

He filled his glass and drank freely as he concluded. His 
face had in it an air of resolve as he spoke which left little 
doubt in my mind that he was the ruffian to do what he threat¬ 
ened, and involuntarily I shuddered when I thought how many 
opportunities must necessarily arise to him for the execution of 
any villany from the near neighborhood in which he lived with 
the enemy whom he so deeply hated. I was not suffered to 
meditate long upon this or any subject. The negro woman ap¬ 
peared bringing in dinner. Borne fried bacon and eggs formed 
the chief items in our repast; and with an extra hospitality, 
which had its object, our host placed our chairs, which were 
both on the one side of the table, he, alone, occupying the seat 
opposite. Without a solitary thought of evil we sat down to 
the repast, which might well be compared to the bail which is 
placed by the cunning fowler for the better entrapping of the 
unwary bird. 


8 


170 


RTCHARD HURDIS. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

IN THE SNARE. 

Titius Sabinus .—Am I then catchedf 
Rufus .—How think you, sir? you are. 

Ben Jonson. 

Though neither William Carrington nor myself sat entirely 
at ease at the table of our host, neither of us had any suspicion 
of his purposes. Regarding the fellow as essentially low in 
his character, and totally unworthy the esteem of honorable 
men, we were only solicitous to get our money and avoid col¬ 
lision with him. And,so far, we had but little reason to com¬ 
plain. Though indulging freely in remarks upon persons — 
Colonel Grafton for example — which were not altogether inof¬ 
fensive, his language in reference to ourselves was sufficiently 
civil; and bating a too frequent approach which he made to an 
undue familiarity, and which, when it concerned me particular¬ 
ly, I was always prompt to check, there was nothing in his 
manner calculated to offend the most irritable. On the contra¬ 
ry, the fellow played the part of humility in sundry instances 
to admiration ; when we resisted him on any subject, he shrank 
from pursuing it, and throughout the interview exhibited a dis¬ 
position to forbear all annoyance, except probably on the one 
subject of Colonel Grafton. On that point even his present 
policy did not suffer him to give way — his self-esteem.had 
been evidently wounded to the quick by his former employer, 
and,with a forbearance like his own, which, under any other 
circumstances, would have been wisdom, we avoided contro¬ 
versy on a topic in which we must evidently disagree. But 
not so Webber. He seemed desirous to gain aliment for his 
anger by a frequent recurrence to the matter which provoked 


IN THE SNARE. 


171 


it, and throughout the whole of our interview until the occur¬ 
rence of those circumstances which served, by their personal 
importance, to supersede all other matters in our thoughts, he 
continued, in spite of all our discouragements, to bring Grafton 
before us in various lights and anecdotes, throughout the whole 
of which, his own relation to the subject of remark was that 
of one who hated with the bitterest hate, and whom fear, or 
some less obvious policy, alone, restrained from an attempt to 
wreak upon his enemy the full extent of that malice which he 
yet had not the wisdom to repress. 

It was while he indulged in this very vein that we heard the 
approaching tramp of horses. Webber stopped instantly in 
his discourse. 

“ Ah, there he comes,” he remarked, “ the debtor is punctual 
enough, though he should have been here an hour sooner. 
And now, ’Squire Carrington, I hope we shall be able to do 
your business.” 

Sincerely did I hope so too. There was an odd sort of smile 
upon the fellow’s lips as he said these words which did not 
please me. It was strange and sinister. It was not good-hu¬ 
mored certainly, and yet it did not signify any sort of dissatis¬ 
faction. Perhaps it simply denoted insincerity, and for this 
I did not like it. Carrington made some reply; and by this 
time we heard a bustling among our horses which were fastened 
to the branches of a tree at the entrance. I was about to rise, 
for I recollected that we had money in the saddle-bags, when 
I was prevented by the appearance of the stranger who entered 
in the same moment. One glance at the fellow was enough. 
His features were those of the undisguised ruffian; and even 
then I began to feel some little apprehension though I could 
not to my own mind define the form of the danger which might 
impend. I could not think it possible that these two ruffians, 
bold however they might be, would undertake to grapple with 
us face to face, and in broad daylight. They could not mis¬ 
take our strength of body; and, body and soul, we felt ourselves 
more than a match for them, and a third to help them. And 
yet, when I reflected upon the large amount of money which 
William had in his possession, I could not but feel that nothing 
but a like knowledge of the fact, was wanting to prompt, not 


172 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


only these but a dozen other desperates like them, to an attempt, 
however unfavorable the aspect, to possess themselves of it. 
Besides, we had surely heard the trampling of more horses than 
one when the newcomer was approaching. Had he compan¬ 
ions 1 Where were they ? These thoughts began to annoy 
and make me suspicious, and I turned to William. Never was 
unquestioning confidence so clearly depicted in any countenance 
as in his. He looked on the stranger with, perhaps, no less 
disgust than myself, but suspicion of foul play he had none. I 
determined that he should be awakened, and was about to rise 
and suggest the conclusion of our business, in such a manner as 
to make it absolutely impossible that he should not see that I 
was placing myself against the wall, when Webber of himself 
proposed the adjustment of the debt. Everything seemed to 
be unequivocal and above board. The stranger pulled forth 
his wallet, and sitting down to the table, on the side next to 
Carrington, proceeded to count out the money before him. The 
amount was in small bills, and having completed his count, 
which took him an uneasy time, he pushed the bundle tow'ard 
Webber, who slowly proceeded to go through a like examination. 
I grew impatient at the delay, but concluded that it would be 
better to say nothing. To show temper at such a moment might 
have been to defeat the purpose which we had in view ; and send 
us off with a satisfaction, essentially different from that for which 
we came. Webber’s face grew more grave than usual as he count¬ 
ed the money, and I could observe that his eyes were frequently 
lifted from the bills, and seemed to wander about the room as if 
his thoughts were elsewhere. But he finished at length, and 
handing the required sum over to William, he begged him to see 
that all was right. The latter was about to do so — had actu¬ 
ally taken the bills in his hands, when I heard a slight footstep 
behind me—before I could turn, under the influence of the 
natural curiosity which prompted me to do so, I heard a sudden 
exclamation from my companion, and in the very same instant, 
felt something falling over my face. Suspicious of foul play 
before, I leaped, as if under a natural instinct to my feet, but 
was as instantly jerked down, and falling over the chair behind 
dragged it with me upon the floor. All this was the work of a 
moment. Striving to rise, I soon discovered the full extent of 


IN THE SNARE. 


173 


my predicament, and the way in which we were taken. My 
arms were bound to my side—almost drawn behind my back— 
by a noose formed in a common plough-line, which was cutting 
into the flesh at every movement which I made. 

That I struggled furiously for release need not be said. I 
was not the man to submit quietly to martyrdom. But I soon 
found my exertions were in vain. The cords were not only 
tightly drawn, but securely fastened behind me to one of the 
sleepers of the cabin — a vacant board from the floor enabling 
my assailants to effect this arrangement with little difficulty. 
Added to this, my struggles brought upon me the entire weight 
of the two fellows who had effected my captivity. One sat 
upon my body as indifferently as a Turk upon his cushions; 
while the other, at every movement which I made, thrust his 
sharp knees into my breast, and almost deprived me of the 
power of breathing. Rage, for the moment, added to my 
strength, which surprised even myself as it surprised my ene¬ 
mies. More than once, without any use of my arms, by the 
mere writhings of my body, did I throw them from it; but ex¬ 
haustion did for them what their own strength could not, and I 
lay quiet at length, and at their mercy. The performance of 
this affair took far less time than the telling of it, and was over, 
I may say, in an instant. 

With William Carrington the case was different. He was 
more fortunate : I thought so at the time, at least. He effected 
his escape. By what chance it was, I know not; but they 
failed to noose him so completely as they had done me. The 
slip was caught by his hand in descending over his shoulders, 
and he threw it from him; and, in the same moment, with a 
blow of his fist that might have felled an ox, he prostrated the 
ruffian who had brought the money, and who stood most conve¬ 
nient to his hand. Without stopping to look at the enemy be¬ 
hind, with that prompt impulse which so frequently commands 
success, he sprang directly over the table, and aimed a second 
blow at Webber, who had risen from his seat and stood directly 
in the way. With a fortunate alacrity the fellow avoided the 
blow, and, darting on one side, drew his dirk, and prepared to 
await the second. 

By this time, however, I was enabled, though prostrated and 


174 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


overcome, to behold the combat in which I could bear no part 
I saw that the only chance of my companion was in flight. Our 
enemies, as if by magic, had sprung up around us like the teeth 
of the dragon. There were no less than seven persons in the 
room besides ourselves. With my utmost voice I commanded 
William to fly. He saw, in the same instant with myself, the 
utter inability of any efforts which he might make, and the 
click of a pistol-cock in the hands of a fellow behind me was a 
warning too significant to be trifled with. With a single look 
at me, which fully convinced me of the pang which he felt at 
being compelled to leave me in such a situation, he sprang 
through the entrance, and in another moment had disappeared 
from sight. Webber and three others immediately rushed off 
in pursuit, leaving me in the custody and at the mercy of the 
three remaining. 


THE RUFFIAN CONFERENCE. 


175 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE RUFFIAN CONFERENCE. 

“ How stubbornly this fellow answered me 1” 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

When, more complacently, I looked around, and into the 
faces of my captors, what was my surprise to behold in the 
most turbulent the bullying gambler with whom I had refused 
to play at the tavern in Tuscaloosa! The countenance of the 
rascal plainly showed that he remembered the transaction. 
There was a complacent and triumphant grin upon his lips, 
which, as I could not then punish him, added to the bitterness 
of my situation. I tried to turn away from regarding him, but 
the relative situation in which we were now placed was but too 
grateful to his mean and malicious soul, and, changing his posi¬ 
tion to correspond with mine, he continued to face me with a 
degree of coldness which could only be ascribed to his perfect 
consciousness of my inability to strive with him. I felt that my 
anger would be not only vain to restrain him in his impudence, 
but, must, from its impotence, only provoke him to an increased 
indulgence of it, besides giving him a degree of satisfaction 
which I was too little his friend to desire. I accordingly fixed 
my eyes upon him with as much cool indifference as I could of 
a sudden put into them, and, schooling my lips to a sort of ut¬ 
terance which fell far short of the feverish wrath in my bosom, 
I thus addressed him : — 

“ If you are the same person who would have cheated me at 
cards in Tuscaloosa a few days ago, I congratulate you upon a 
sudden increase of valor. You have improved amazingly in a 
very short space of time, and, though I can not say that your 
courage is even now of the right kind, yet there’s no saying 


176 


RTCHARP HURDIS. 


how fast one may acquire it who has commenced so happily 
Perhaps — as I doubt not that you desire still further to im¬ 
prove—you would be pleased to give me some little opportu 
nity to try you, and test your progress. If you would but free 
an arm or so, and let us try it with fist or hickory — ay, or with 
other weapons with which I see you are well enough provided 
— I should very much alter the opinion I had formed of you 
at our first meeting.’' 

The fellow chafed to hear these words, and let fly a volley 
of oaths, which only served to increase the coolness of my tem¬ 
per. I felt that I had a decided advantage over him, and a 
speech so little expected from one in my situation, and so con¬ 
temptuous at the same time, provoked the unmitigated laughter 
of the fellow’s companions, who had assumed with him the cus¬ 
tody of my person. 

“And what the h—11 is there to grin about?” he said to them, 
as soon as their subsiding merriment enabled him to be heard ; 
“ do you mind, or do you think I mind, the crowings of this 
cock-sparrow, when I can clip his wings at any moment ? Let 
him talk while he may — who cares? It will be for me to 
wind up with him when I get tired of his nonsense.” 

“ But won’t you let the chap loose, Bully George ?” cried one 
of the companions; “ let him loose, as he asks you, and try a 
hickory. I know you’re famous at a stick-fight: I saw you 
once at the Sipsy, when you undertook to lather Jim Cudworth. 
You didn’t know Jim before that time, George, or you wouldn’t 
ha’ chose that weapon. But this lark, now — he, I reckon’s, 
much easier to manage than Jim: let him try it, George.” 

This speech turned the fury of the bully from me to his com¬ 
rades ; but it was the fury of foul language only, and would not 
bear repetition. The fellow, whom they seemed pleased to 
chafe, foamed like a madman in striving to reply. The jest 
was taken up by the two, who bandied it to and fro. as two 
expert ball-players do their ball without suffering it once tv 
fall to the ground, until they tired of the game; and they re 
peated and referred to a number of little circumstances in the 
history of their vexed associate, all calculated at once to pro¬ 
voke him into additional fury, and to convince me that the fel¬ 
low was, as I had esteemed him at the very first glance, a poor 


THE RUFFIAN CONFERENCE. 


177 


and pitiable coward. In due proportion as they found merri¬ 
ment in annoying him, did they seem to grow good natured 
toward myself—perhaps, because I had set the ball in motion 
which they had found it so pleasant to keep up; but their sport 
had like to have been death to me. The ruffian, driven almost 
to madness by the sarcasms of those whom he did not dare to 
attack, turned suddenly upon me, and with a most murderous 
determination aimed his dagger at my throat. I had no way 
to ward the weapon, and must have perished but for the 
promptitude of one of the fellows, who seemed to have watched 
the bully closely, and who caught his arm ere it descended, and 
wrested the weapon from him. The joke had ceased. The 
man who stayed his arm now spoke to him in the fierce lan¬ 
guage of a superior : — 

“ Look you, Bully George, had you bloodied the boy, I should 
ha’ put my cold steel into your ribs for certain!” 

“ Why, what is he to you, Geoffrey, that you should take up 
for him 2” was the subdued answer. 

‘‘Nothing much, and for that matter you’re nothing much to 
me either; but I don’t see the profit of killing the chap, and 
Mat Webber ordered that we shouldn’t hurt him.” 

“Mat Webber’s a milk-and-water fool,” replied the other. 

“ Let him hear you say so,” said Geoffrey, “ and see the end 
of it! It’s a pretty thing, indeed, that you should talk of Mat 
being a milk-and-water fool—a man that will fight through a 
thicket of men, when you’d be for sneaking round it! Shut up, 
Bully George, and give way to your betters. The less you say 
the wiser. Don’t we know that the chap’s right ? If you were 
nly half the man that he seems to be, you wouldn’t be half so 
oloody-minded with a prisoner; you wouldn't cut more throats 
than Mat Webber, and perhaps you’d get a larger share of the 
blunder. I’ve always seen that it’s such chaps as you, that 
don’t love fight when it’s going, that’s always most ready to cut 
nd stab when there’s no danger, and when there’s no use for 
;t. Keep your knife till it’s wanted. It may be that you may 
soon have better use for it, since, if that other lark get off, he’ll 
bring Grafton and all the constables of the district upon us.” 

“ It’s a bad job, that chap’s getting off,” said the other ruf 
“ How did you happen to miss, Geoffrey 2” 

8 * 


can. 


178 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


“ The devil knows ! I had the rope fair enough, I thought; 
but somehow he twisted round, or raised his hand just when I 
dropped it over him, and threw it off a bit quicker than I threw 
it on. He’s a stout fellow that, and went over the table like a 
ball. I’m dubious he’ll get off. Look out, John, and say what 
you see.” 

The fellow complied, and returned after a few moments with 
an unsatisfactory answer. Some further conference ensued be¬ 
tween them touching the probable chances of Carrington’s es¬ 
cape, and my heart grew painfully interested, as I heard their 
cold and cruel calculations as to the wisest course of action 
among the pursuers. Their mode of disposing of the difficulty, 
summary and reckless as it showed them to be, was enough to 
inspire me with the most anxious fear. If they, unvexed by 
flight, and unexcited by the pursuit, could yet deliberately re¬ 
solve that the fugitive should be shot down rather than suffered 
to escape, the event was surely not improbable. I could listen 
no longer in silence. 

“ I hear you, sir,” I said, interrupting the fellow who was 
styled Geoffrey, and who seemed the most humane among them; 
“ you coolly resolve that my friend should be murdered. You 
can not mean that Webber will do such a deed'? I will not 
believe you. If you only think to annoy and frighten me, you 
are mistaken. I am in your power, it is true, and you may put 
me to death, as your companion, who thinks to make up in cru¬ 
elty what he lacks in courage, appeared just now to desire— 
but is this your policy ! What good can come of it ? It will 
neither help you in present flight nor in future safety. As for 
my money, if it is that which you want, it is quite as easy for 
you to take that as my life. All that I have is in your posses¬ 
sion. My horse, my clothes, my cash—they are all together; 
and, having these, the mere shedding of my blood can give you 
no pleasure, unless you have been schooled among the savages 
As for your men overtaking my friend, I doubt it, unless their 
horses are the best blood in the country. That which he rides 
I know to be so, and can not easily be caught.” 

“A bullet will make up the difference,” said Geoffrey; “ and, 
sure as you lie there, Webber will shoot if he finds he can’t 
catch. He can’t help doing so, if he hopes to get off safely 


THE RUFFIAN CONFERENCE. 


179 


himself. If the chap escapes, he brings down old Grafton upon 
us, and Webber very well knows the danger of falling into his 
clutches. We must tie you both up for to-night if we can. As 
for killing you or scaring you, we want to do neither one nor 
t’other, if we can tie up your hands and shut up your mouths 
for the next twenty-four hours If we can’t—” 

He left the rest of the sentence unuttered—meaning, I sup¬ 
pose, to be merciful in his forbearance; and nothing more was 
said by either of us for some time, particularly affecting the 
matter in hand. A full hour had elapsed, and yet we heard 
nothing of the pursuit. My anxiety began to be fully shared 
among my keepers. They went out to the road alternately at 
different periods, to make inquiries, but without success. Geof¬ 
frey at length, after going forth with my gambling acquaintance 
of the Tuscaloosa tavern for about fifteen minutes, returned, 
bringing in with them, to my great surprise, the saddle-bags of 
William Carrington. In my first fear, I demanded if he was 
taken, and my surprise was great when they told me he was 
not. 

“ How, then, came you by those saddle-bags V 9 was my ques¬ 
tion. 

“ What! are they his ?” replied Geoffrey. 

Yes.” 

“ Then he’s taken your horse, and not his own,” was the an¬ 
swer ; “ for we found these on one of the nags that you brought 
with you,” 

They were not at all dissatisfied with the exchange, when 
they discovered the contents, which they soon got at, in spite 
of the lock, by slashing the leather open with their knives in 
various places. The silver dollars rolled from the handkerchief 
in which they had been wrapped, in every direction about the 
floor, and were scrambled after by two of the fellows with the 
avidity of urchins gathering nuts. But I observed that they 
put carefully together all that they took from the saddle-bags, 
as if with reference to a common division of the spoil. The 
few clothes which the bags contained were thrown out without 
any heed upon the floor, but not till they had been closely ex¬ 
amined in every part for concealed money. They got a small 
roll of bills along with the silver, but I was glad when I recol 


180 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


lected that William had the greater sum in his bosom. Poor 
fellow! — at that moment I envied him his escape. I thought 
him fortunate; and regarded myself as the luckless wretch 
whom fate had frowned upon only. Alas for him I envied ! — 
my short-sightedness was pitiable. Little did I dream, or he 
apprehend, the dreadful fate that lay in his path. 


THE SUDDEN BOLT 


181 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE SUDDEN BOLT. 

Hub. Behold, sir, 

A sad-writ tragedy, so feelingly 

Languaged and cast; with such a crafty cruelty 

Contrived and acted, that wild savages 

Would weep to lay their ears to !— Robert Davenport. 

It may be just as well that the knowledge of the reader 
should anticipate my own, and that I should narrate in this 
place those events of which I knew nothing till some time after. 
I will therefore proceed to state what happened to William Car¬ 
rington after leaving me at the hovel where I had fallen into 
such miserable captivity. Having, by a promptness of execu¬ 
tion and a degree of physical energy and power which had al¬ 
ways distinguished him, gained the entrance, he seized upon 
the first horse which presented itself to his hand, and which 
happened to be mine. It was a moment when, perhaps, he 
could not discriminate, or, if he could, when it might have been 
fatal for him to attempt to do so. The bloodhounds were close 
in pursuit behind him. He heard their cries and following foot¬ 
steps, and in an instant tore away the bridle from the swinging 
bough to which it was fastened, tearing a part of the branch 
with it. He did not stop to throw the bridle over the animal’s 
neck. To a rider of such excellent skill, the reins were hardly 
necessary. He leaped instantly upon his back, making his 
rowels answer all purposes in giving the direction which he 
desired him to take. 

His foes were only less capable and energetic than himself; 
they were no less prompt and determined. With a greater 
delay, but at the same time better preparedness, they mounted 
in pursuit. Their safety, perhaps, depended upon arresting his 
flight, and preventing him from bringing down upon them a 


182 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


competent force for their arrest, which certainly would be the 
case if they suffered him to convey the intelligence to such an 
active magistrate as Colonel Grafton. Their desire was further 
stimulated by the knowledge which they had of the large 
amount of money which William carried with him. 

If their motives were sufficient to quicken their movements to 
the utmost point within their endeavors, his were not less so. 
His life, he must have known, depended upon his present 
escape. Nor was it merely necessary to keep ahead of them; 
he must keep out of bullet-reach also to be safe. But I will not 
do him the injustice to suppose, for an instant, that his consid¬ 
erations were purely selfish. I knew better. I feel assured 
that my safety was no less the matter in his thoughts than his 
own. I feel sure he would never have been content with his 
own escape, did he not believe that mine now depended upon it. 
These were all considerations to move him to the fullest exer¬ 
tion; and never did good steed promise to serve at need his 
rider better than did mine in that perilous flight. An animal 
only inferior to his own, my horse had the blood of a racer that 
was worthy of his rider’s noble nature. He answered the ex¬ 
pectations of Carrington without making necessary the frequent 
application of the spur. He left the enemy behind him. He 
gained at every jump; and the distance between them at the 
first, which was not inconsiderable, for the movement of Wil¬ 
liam had been so unexpected as to have taken Webber and the 
rest by surprise, was increased in ten minutes nearly double. 
At moments they entirely lost sight of him, until very long 
stretches of a direct road again made him visible; but he was 
already far beyond the reach of their weapons. These, with 
but one exception, were pistols of large size, which in a prac¬ 
tised hand might carry truly a distance of thirty yards. Web¬ 
ber, however, had a short double-barrelled ducking-gun, which 
he had caught up the moment his horse was ready. This was 
loaded with buck-shot, and would have told at eighty yards in 
the hands of the ruffian who bore it. 

But the object was beyond its reach, and the hope of the pur¬ 
suers was now in some casualty, which seemed not improbable 
in the desperate and headlong manner of Carrington’s flight. 
But the latter had not lost any of his coolness in his impetuosi- 


THE SUDDEN BOLT. 


183 


ty. He readily comprehended the nature of that hope in his 
enemies which prompted them to continue the pursuit; and, 
perhaps, less confident than he might have been, in his own 
horsemanship, he determined to baffle them in it. 

Looking round, as he did repeatedly, he availed himself of a 
particular moment when he saw that he might secure his bridle 
and discard the fragment of the hough which was still attached 
to it, before they could materially diminish the space between 
them; and drawing up his horse with the most perfect coolness, 
he proceeded to unloose the branch and draw the reins fairly 
over the head of the animal. The pursuers beheld this, and it 
invigorated the pursuit. 

If the reader knows anything of the region of country in 
which these events took place, he will probably recognise the 
scene over which I now conduct him. The neighborhood road, 
leading by Grafton’s and Webber’s, was still a distinct trace, 
though but little used, a few years ago. It was a narrow track 
at best and been a frontier road for military purposes before the 
Chickasaws left that region. The path was intricate and wind¬ 
ing, turning continually to right and left, in avoiding sundry lit¬ 
tle creeks and difficult hills which sprinkled the whole face of 
the country. But the spot where William halted to arrange his 
bridle was more than usually straight, and, for the space of half 
a mile, objects might be discerned in a line nearly direct. Still 
the spot was an obscure and gloomy one. The road in one 
place ran between two rising grounds, the elevations of which 
were greater and more steep than usual. On one side there 
was an abrupt precipice, from which the trees almost entirely 
overhung the path. This was called at that period, the “ day- 
blind,” in a taste kindred with that which named a correspond¬ 
ing region, only a few miles off, “ the shades of death.” For a 
space of forty yards or more, this “ blind” was sufficiently close 
and dense, almost to exclude the day—certainly the sunlight. 

William had entered upon this passage, and the pursuers 
were urging their steeds with a last and despairing effort, al¬ 
most hopeless of overtaking him, and, perhaps, only continuing 
the chase under the first impulse of their start, and from the ex¬ 
citement which rapid motion always provokes. He now felt 
his security, and laughed at the pursuit. The path, though dim 


184 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


and dusky, was yet distinct before him. At tlie outlet the sun 
shine lay, like a protecting spirit, in waiting to receive him ; 
and the sight so cheered him, that he half turned about upon 
his horse, and while he stayed not his progress, he shook his 
unemployed aim in triumph at his enemies. Another bound 
brought him out of the dim valley through which he had rid¬ 
den ; and when he was most sure of his escape, and when his 
pursuers began to meditate their return from the hopeless chase, 
a sudden shot was heard from the woods above, and in the same 
instant, Webber, who was in the advance, saw the unhappy 
youth bound completely out of his saddle, and fall helplessly, 
like a stone, upon the ground, while his horse passed from un¬ 
der him, and, under the impulse of sudden fright, continued on 
his course with a more headlong speed than ever. 

The event which arrested for ever the progress of the fugi¬ 
tive, at once stopped the pursuit as suddenly. Webber called 
one of his companions to his side: a sallow and small person, 
with a keen black eye, and a visage distinguished by dogged 
resolution, and practised cunning. 

“ Barret,” said the one ruffian to the other, “ we must see who 
it is that volunteers to be our striker. He has a ready hand, and 
should be one of us, if he be not so already. It may be Eberly. 
It is high time he should have left Grafton’s, where the wonder 
is he should have trifled so long. There’s something wrong 
about that business ; but no matter now. We must see to this. 
Should the fellow that tumbled the chap not be one of us, you 
must make him one. We have him on our own terms. Pursue 
him though he takes you into Georgia. Away, now; sweep 
clean round the blind, and come on his back—he will keep 
close when he sees us two coming out in front—and when you 
have got his trail, come back for an instant to get your instruc¬ 
tions. Be off, now; we will see to the carrion.” 

When Webber and his remaining companion reached the 
body, it was already stiff. In the warm morning of youth—in 
the flush of hope—with a heart as true, and a form as noble, as 
ever bounded with love and courage—my friend, my almost 
brother, was shot down by a concealed ruffian, to whom he had 
never offered wrong ! What a finish to his day ! What a sud¬ 
den night for so fair a morning! 


NARROW ESCAPE. 


185 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

NARROW ESCAPE. 

“Villain, I know thou com’st to murder me.” 

Marlowe. —Edward the Second. 

Matthew Webber was no trifler. Though represented by 
his comrades, as we have seen in a previous dialogue, as unwil¬ 
ling to shed blood, it may be added that his unwillingness did 
not arise from any scruples of humanity, which are always un¬ 
necessary to the profession of the outlaw. He was governed 
entirely by a selfish policy, which calmly deliberated upon its 
work of evil, and chose that course which seemed to promise 
the greatest return of profit with the greatest security. To 
avoid bloodshed was simply to avoid one great agent of detec¬ 
tion. Hence his forbearance. To the moral of the matter, none 
could have been more thoroughly indifferent. We beheld him 
giving instructions to an associate the moment that William 
Carrington fell by an unknown hand, to pursue the murderer, 
not with a view to his punishment, but with a desire to secure 
a prompt associate. It was not the wish of the fraternity of 
robbers, herding on the Choctaw frontier, that anybody should 
take up the trade in that region, of which they desired the mo¬ 
nopoly. When the fellow, thus instructed, had gone, Webber, 
with his remaining associates, at once proceeded to examine 
the body, which was lifeless when they reached it. They 
wasted no time in idle wonder, and gave but a single glance at 
the wound, which they saw was inflicted by a rifle-bullet; then 
lifting the inanimate form into the wood, they rifled it of the 
large sum of money which Carrington had concealed in his 
bosom, and taking it into a little crevice in the hill-side, which 
could not hide it, they threw it down indifferently, trusting to 


186 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


the wolves, of which that neighborhood had numerous herds, to 
remove it in due season. Poor youth! with such a heart—so 
noble, so brave—with affections so warm, and hopes so full of 
promise—to be shot down in the sun-liglit—in the bloom of 
manhood—by an obscure ruffian, and be denied a grave! 

When they had possessed themselves of the money, the 
amount of which gave them no small pleasure, they put spurs 
to their horses and rode back with as great speed as they had 
used in the pursuit. It was necessary that they should do so, 
and hasten their flight from the spot where their evil-doings had 
been begun. My horse had continued on his course with a speed 
which had been increased by his alarm and unrestraint after the 
fall of his rider; and Webber saw, with no small anxiety, that 
lie was in the direct road to Colonel Grafton’s, to which place 
he did not doubt that he would return, having been so lately 
lodged there. The scoundrels, who were guarding me, had, in 
the meantime, become greatly disquieted by their apprehensions 
at the delay of the pursuers, and not small was their relief when 
they saw them safe, and felt themselves once more secure in 
their united strength. They consulted together apart, and fre¬ 
quently pointed to me where I lay, on my back, and bound 
rigidly to an exposed joist of the floor. What had taken place 
in the pursuit, they did not reveal in my hearing; and bitter, 
indeed, were my feelings as 1 lay in this doubly evil state of 
incapacity and suspense. The doubtfulness of my own, was 
not less a subject of concern in my mind than was his fate — 
for my strongest impression with regard to Carrington was, that 
he had escaped in safety to Grafton’s. All then that I had to 
fear might be the present rage of my captors. They might 
sacrifice me before relief could come. I strove not to think of 
this; still less was I willing that the villains should see I feared 
them; yet, to confess a truth, it required no small effort to con¬ 
ceal the apprehensions which I could not subdue, and my suc¬ 
cess, with all my efforts, was partial only. They must have 
beheld the struggle of my bosom in my face. But of this they 
seemed to take no heed. They were too much interested in 
their own situation and apprehensions, to give much regard to 
mine. They consulted together, earnestly with the air of men 
who had need of haste in their resolutions. “We must be off 


NARROW ESCAPE. 


187 


at once,” I heard Webber say at one time; “there will be no 
help for ns now, if he gets to Grafton’s.” This last sentence 
brought warmth and assurance to my heart, I did not doubt of 
my friend’s safety. “But this lark?” said Geoffrey; and I 
saw from the quick, malignant glance which my gambler ac¬ 
quaintance bestowed upon me when these words were uttered, 
that it was of me they spoke. The latter bent forward to hear 
the resolve of Webber—whose word here seemed to be law — 
with an air of anxiety not less great than that which I might 
have shown myself. The answer of Webber did not seem to 
satisfy him. 

“ What of him ?” said the latter. “ Shall we stretch him V* 
was the further inquiry of Geoffrey; an equivocal phrase which 
I suppose coolly meant “ shall we cut his throat V’ 

“ Pshaw, no !” replied the other. “ What’s the good of it ? — 
let the fellow lie where he is and cool himself. By to-morrow, 
somebody will cut his strings, and help him turn over. He will 
get hungry in the meantime, for he didn’t eat a hearty dinner— 
all his own fault. Come, let us jog.” 

Ten minutes had not elapsed when they were all ready, and 
I saw them prepare to depart, leaving me as I lay, bound to the 
floor by my body and arms, and capable of moving my legs only. 
Webber took leave of me with the composure of one who has 
nothing with which to reproach himself. 

“ Grafton will be here after a while,” said he, “ and set you 
free. You may tell him I’m sorry, but it don’t suit me to wait 
for him now. He will see me, however, at his daughter’s mar¬ 
riage. Good-by.” 

The man called Geoffrey said something to me in a similar 
spirit; the gambler grinned only upon me as he passed, but 
with such an expression of malice in his visage, that, though I 
did not fear the reptile, it yet made me shudder to behold him. 
In a few moments more I was left alone to muse over my dis¬ 
consolate condition. I heard the trampling of their horses die 
away in the distance, and such was the cheerlessness of my sit¬ 
uation, that I positively seemed to be chilled by their departure. 
Th is, however, was but the feeling of the moment, and I was 
allowed a brief time for its indulgence. To my surprise the gam¬ 
bler reappeared, when I had thought him with the rest of his 


188 


RICHARD HURD1S. 


companions full a half mile off; and the increased malignity 
embodied and looking green in his visage, left m3 little doubts 
as to the motive which had made him lag behind. If I had 
doubts at the beginning, he did not suffer me to entertain them 
long. His words removed them. 

“ And now,” he said, “ my brave fellow, the time is come for 
your quittance. You have had the word of me long enough 
You are in my power. What have you to say for yourself 1 ?” 

“ What should I say ?” was my ready and indignant reply. 
Truly and miserably did I feel at the conviction, that I was in¬ 
deed in the power and at the mercy of this vile wretch; but if 
worlds had depended upon it, I could not have answered him 
other than in language of the most unadulterated scorn. 

“ Ha! do you not understand me V* he cried. “ Your life, I 
tell you, is in my power! The only man in the world who 
could have kept me from taking it, is Mat Webber, and he’s 
out of reach and hearing. It is but a blow, and with all your 
pride and insolence I let your blood out upon this floor ! What 
do you say that I should not 1 ? — what prayer will you make to 
me that I should spare your life 1” 

The fellow leaned upon the table which, occupying the mid¬ 
dle of the floor, stood between him and the place where I lay. 
My feet were half under it. He leaned over it, and shook at 
me a long knife, bared ready for the stroke, in sundry savage 
movements. I gave him look for look, and a full defiance for 
all his threatenings. 

“Prayer to you !” I exclaimed; “that were putting myself, 
indeed, within your power ! You may stab ! — I can not help 
myself—but you shall only murder ! — wretch ! you shall have 
no triumph!” and, grown utterly reckless, as I believed there 
was no hope of escape, and that I must die, I lifted my feet, and 
thrusting them with all my might against the table, I sent it for¬ 
ward with such force as to hurl it upon him, when both came to 
the floor together. The fellow was not much hurt, and a few 
moments sufficed for his extrication. With accumulated fury, 
that foamed but did not speak, he was about to rush upon me, 
when a sudden footstep behind him drew all his attention to the 
new-comer. Never could I have believed, till then, that fear 
could so suddenly succeed to rage in any bosom, The villain 


NARROW ESCAPE. 


189 


grew white as a sheet the moment that he heard the sound and 
saw the person. It was Webber who looked upon him with the 
eye of a master. 

“ You’re a pretty fellow! ain’t you ? So you kept behind for 
this 1 Geoffrey warned me to expect it, as soon as I found you 
missing; and it’s well I got hack in time. You are a fool, bul¬ 
ly boy, and you’ll be stretched for it. Mount before me, and if 
you’re wise, forget you’ve ever seen this chap. Come—be¬ 
gone, I say! no word—not one — Grafton’s under way al¬ 
ready !” 

The assassin was actually incapable of answer. Certainly he 
made none. The main villain of this precious set must have 
seen a various life of service. The whole train of proceedings 
which he had this day witnessed — the first assault upon Wil¬ 
liam and myself—the pursuit of the former — his death—and 
the subsequent attempt of my enemy upon my person — all 
seemed to awaken in him but little emotion. There was but 
one subject upon which he could not preserve his temper, and 
that was his old employer, Colonel Grafton—but with regard 
to all others, his selfishness had schooled him successfully to 
suffer no feeling or passion to interfere in the slightest degree 
with what might be his prevailing policy. With the inflexi¬ 
bility of a superior, suspicious of his slave, he waited until he 
saw my enemy mount and set forth, then nodding to me with 
the freedom of an old friend, he left the entrance, and I was 
once more left alone. 


190 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

JOY — SORROW. 

‘When Ly cabas his Athis thus beheld, 

How was his friendly heart with sorrow tilled ! 

A youth so noble, to his soul so dt-ar, * 

To see his shapeless look—his dying groans to hear!” 

Ovid — Metamorpho* a, b. t. 

Hour after hour rolled on, night was approaching, and yet 
no aid came. What could this mean ? What had become of 
my friend ? Had he grown indifferent to my fate ? did he fear 
to encounter a second time with the wretches who had pursued 
him for his life ? I dismissed this doubt as soon as it was sug¬ 
gested to my mind; but I conceived any but the true occasion 
for his delay. I knew William too well to fear that he would 
desert me. I knew that he had no pusillanimous fears to deter 
him from a proper risk. He had probably not been able to get 
assistance readily, and to come without an adequate force was 
to commit a rashness and incur a danger without any corre¬ 
sponding advantage. I tried to solace myself with the convic¬ 
tion that he would not be much longer absent, but how cheerless 
did I feel the while! The very inability under which I la¬ 
bored to do anything for myself, was, to a mind and body like 
mine — accustomed to do for themselves always — enough to 
discourage the hope of being effectually relieved by others. 
The approach of night did not diminish my apprehensions. 
The sun had now set, and there was a brief interval of dusk 
and silence between its disappearance and the rising of the 
moon, which was particularly gloomy. How dreadfully active 
my imagination grew in that interval, and what effect it had 
upon my nerves, I almost shame to say; but I felt a degree of 
fear in that brief space of time which I had never suffered be- 


JOY — SORROW. 


191 


fore, and trust that, in no situation, I shall ever be compelled to 
endure again. 

A state of conscious helplessness suggests a thousand fears 
and fancies that could not he forced upon the mind under other 
circumstances. Forms of danger that would seem impossible 
even in our dreams, become, at such a period, unquestionable 
foes; and the mind, losing its balance after a brief contest, fore¬ 
goes all examination of the danger, and yields up the contest in 
utter imbecility. But now the moon rose to cheer me. Light 
is always cheerful. I could not see her orb where I lay, but 
her smiles, like those of some benign and blessed spirit, streamed 
through the thousand cracks and openings of the log-hovel which 
was now a prison as secure to keep me as the donjon of the feu¬ 
dal baron. Her beams fell around me in little spots that dimpled 
the whole apartment with shining and bright glances. 

Yet even this cheering spectacle impressed me with added 
disquiet when I found myself so securely fastened to the floor 
as not to be able with all my writhings to avoid the occasional 
rays that fell upon my face and eyes. How bitterly did this 
make me feel my incapacity ! — and when, at moments, I heard 
the faint but protracted bay of the wolf in his leafy den not 
far off, which I did as soon as the night set in, I could not 
doubt that he would soon make his appearance in the deserted 
hovel: and I, who could not shelter my face from the light of 
the moon, had still fewer hopes of being able to protect myself 
from him. With every sound in the neighboring thickets I 
imagined him approaching, under the instinct of a scent as keen 
as that of the vulture, to his bloody feast; and I vainly asked my¬ 
self what I should do in my defence, when his gaunt and shaggy 
body was stretched out upon my own, and his slobbering snout 
was thrust into my face ! I strove, but could not lift an arm— 
I could only shout, in the hope to scare him from his prey; 
and, such was my conscious impotence, that it struck me as not 
impossible but that I might have lost the use of my voice also. 
Such was the vivid force of this childish apprehension in my 
mind, that I actually shouted aloud, to convince myself that it 
was groundless: I shouted aloud, and, to my great joy—with¬ 
out any such hope or expectation — I heard my shouts returned. 
Another and another ! Never were there Sweeter echoes to the 


192 


itICHARD HURDIS. 


cry for relief. In a few minutes more I was surrounded by a 
troop — a half-dozen at least—all friends — yet where was Wil 
liam Carrington, the dearest friend of all — where ? where ? My 
demand was quickly answered. 

Colonel Grafton, who led the company, told his story, which 
was painfully unsatisfactory. My horse, freed from his rider, 
had brought the only intelligence which Colonel Grafton had 
received. He had seen nothing of my friend. He was not at 
home when the horse came to his gate, and the animal was 
taken in by a servant. When he did return, he immediately 
proceeded to my assistance; though not before calling up a 
patrol of such of his neighbors as he could rely upon, to assist 
him in an inquiry in which he not only feared foul play, but 
apprehended an issue with more than the one villain into whose 
clutches we had fallen. I was soon freed from my bonds, but 
how much more unhappy than I was before ! How puerile had 
been my selfish apprehensions, compared to those which now 
filled my heart when I thought of Carrington ! What had been 
his fate ? where was he ? How icy cold in my bosom did my 
blood run as I meditated these doubts, and dreaded the increase 
of knowledge which I was yet compelled to seek ! 

Let me pass over this dreadful interval of doubt, and hurry 
on the palsying conviction of the truth which followed. Our 
search that night was unavailing, but the next morning the 
woods were scoured, and it was my fortune to be the first to 
fall upon traces which led me to the body of my friend. I saw 
where he had fallen—where the horse had evidently shycd as 
the shot was given and the rider fell. The earth was still 
smooth where he had lain, for Webber was too much hurried, 
or too indifferent, to endeavor to remove the marks of the event. 
It was not now difficult to find the body. They had not carried 
it far; and I removed a clump of bushes which grew over the 
hollow in which they had thrown it, and started with a convul¬ 
sion of horror to find it lying at my feet. Cold, silent, stiff— 
there he lay, the friend of my heart, battered and bruised — his 
noble face covered with blood and dust, one of his eyes protru¬ 
ding from its socket, and the limbs, once so symmetrical and 
straight, now contracted and fixed in deformity by the sudden 
vn*mms rf death 1 


JOY — SORROW. 


198 


All my strength left me as this dreadful spectacle met my 
eyes. I sunk down beside it, incapable of speech or action. 
My knees were weakened — my very soul dead within me. I 
could only sob and moan, and my choking utterance might well 
have moved the wonder and pity of those about me, to behold 
one who seemed otherwise so strong and bold, now sunk into 
such a state of womanlike infirmity. Colonel Grafton condoled 
with me like a father; but what could he, or any one, say to 
me in the way of consolation ? Who could declare the amount 
of my loss'? and yet what was my loss to hers — the poor girl 
who waited for his return ? From me she was to hear that lie 
never could return !—that he lay cold in his gore — his voice 
silent, his body mangled, his noble figure stiffened into deform¬ 
ity ! I shivered as with an ague-fit when I remembered that it 
was from my lips she was to hear all this. 

An examination of the body proved two things which struck 
me with surprise. It was found that the fatal wound had been 
received in front, and that it had been inflicted by a rifle-bullet. 
Eow to account for this I knew not. I had seen no rifle among 
the weapons carried by any of the outlaws; and even if there 
had been, how should the shot have taken effect in front, he 
flying from them — evidently in rapid flight when shot, and 
they some distance behind him ? There was only one way at 
that moment to account for this, and that was to suppose that 
some associate of the pursuers had either been stationed in front, 
or had, opportunely for them, appeared there as he approached 
the point where lie had fallen. Though still unsatisfactory to 
me, and perhaps to all, we were yet compelled, in the absence 
of all better knowledge, to content ourselves with a conjecture, 
which, though plausible enough, did not satisfy us. I felt that 
there was some mystery still in the transaction, and that Wil¬ 
liam had not been slain willingly by the pursuers. Webber had 
headed them, and why should he have been so prompt to mur¬ 
der one, and spare another — ay, even protect him from harm 
— who was so completely in his power? There was as little 
personal hostility toward William in the mind of Webber as 
toward me—and yet the blood, warmed by pursuit, might have 
grown too rash for the deliberate resolve even of one so habitu¬ 
ally cool as the master-villain on this occasion. 


194 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


Doubts thickened in my mind with every added moment of 
conjecture, and at length I strove to think no more upon it. I 
resolved to do so, though I soon found my resolution idle. How 
could I forbear the thought, when I found it had made my hair 
gray in that single night! Either that or my fears had done 
so, and I fain would believe it was not the latter. I could think 
now of nothing else. That mangled body lay before me which¬ 
ever way I turned. I saw the ghastly glaze upon the starting 
eye that bulged half way from its socket. I saw that mouth, 
whose smile it had been a pleasure to see, distorted from its natu¬ 
ral shape, and smeared with dust and mire. There, too. was the 
narrow orifice through which life had rushed, prayerless per¬ 
haps, and oh, with such terrific abruptness ! I thought then of 
all his ways—his frank, hearty laugh, his generous spirit, his 
free, bold character, his love of truth, his friendship, and the 
sweet heart-ties which had bound him to life and earth, and 
warmed him with promising hopes, never to be fulfilled. That 
last thought was the pang above all. Poor William — poor Em¬ 
meline ! Little, in the gushing fullness of their united hopes, 
did their hearts dream of a destiny like this! 


PAUSE — BUT NOT REPOSE. 


195 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

PAUSE — BUT NOT REPOSE. 

“ Well 1 he is dead- 

Murdered perhaps 1 and I am faint, and feel 

As if it were no painful thing to die!”— Coleridge. 

With a stunned mind and most miserable feelings, I was al¬ 
most led away by Colonel Grafton to his dwelling. For three 
days I could resolve on nothing. In that time we committed 
William to the earth. A quiet spot under a clump of venerable 
oaks, which the colonel had chosen for his own final resting- 
place, afforded one to my friend. The heavy moss depended 
from the trees above him, and the warm sun came to his turf in 
subdued glances through the withered leaves. Birds had built 
their nests from time immemorial in their boughs, and the con¬ 
stant rabbit might be seen leaping in the long, yellow grasses 
beneath them, when the dusky shadows of evening were about 
to fall. The hunter never crept to this spot to pursue his game 
of death. The cruel instrument of his sport was forbidden to 
sound therein. The place was hallowed to solemn sleep and 
to the brooding watchfulness of happy spirits; and in its quiet 
round we left the inanimate form of one whose heart had been as 
lovely in its performances as to the eye were the serene shadows 
of the spot where we laid him. I envied him the peace which 
I was sure his spirit knew, when we put his body out of sight. 
God help me, for truly there was little that felt like peace in 
mine! 

For three days, as I said before, I was like one stunned and 
deafened. I had no quickness to perceive, nor ability to ex¬ 
amine. My thoughts were a perfect chaos, and ccntinual and 
crowding images of death were passing before my eyes. The 
kind friends with whom I lingered during this brief but rnosi 


196 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


painful period, did all in their power to console me. They 
spared no attentions, they withheld no consideration, that might 
have been gratifying to the bruised and broken spirit. And yet 
no ministerings could have been more judicious than were theirs. 
The word of kindness was never out of place. There was noth¬ 
ing intrusive in their ’tendance, but a general fitness of speech 
and gesture, so far as I perceived them, extended through tlio 
movements of the whole family. Colonel Grafton, with a proper 
considerateness, entirely forebore the subject of my loss; his 
words were few and well timed; and, though they were not 
directly addressed to my griefs, their tendency was to adminis¬ 
ter to them. If his good sense made him avoid a rude tenting 
of the wound, he did not fall into the opposite error of seeking 
to make light of it. His countenance had a subdued gravity 
upon it, which softened into sweetness a face in which benig¬ 
nity and manliness were evenly mingled, elevating and qualify¬ 
ing one another, and his language was given to subjects belong¬ 
ing to the general interests of humanity which the mourner 
might very well apply to his affliction without being curiously 
seen to do so. Mrs. Grafton’s cares were no less considerate 
than his. My mother could not so keenly have studied my 
feelings, nor so kindly have administered to them. Julia, too, 
seemed to grow less shy than usual, and sat down like a confi¬ 
ding child beside me, bringing me her work to look at, and un¬ 
folding to me the most valued stores of her little library. Sor¬ 
row has no sex, and woman becomes courageous to serve in 
affliction the man whom she would tremble in prosperity barely 
to encounter. Her lover made his appearance but once during 
my stay, and remained but a short time, so that I had her com¬ 
pany in several of my sad rambles. Somehow, I felt my great¬ 
est source of consolation in her. It is probable that we derive 
strength from the contemplation of a weakness which is greater 
than our own. I felt it so with me. The confiding dependence 
of this lovely girl — her appeals to my superior information— 
taught me at moments to lose sight of my cares: and,, perhaps, 
as she saw this, with the natural arts of her sex, she became 
more confiding — more a child. 

At length, 1 started from my stupor. I grew ashamed of my 
weakness. To feel our losses is becoming enough — to yield 


PAUSE — BUT NOT REPOSE. 


197 


to them and sink under their pressure is base and unmanly 
I was vexed to think that Colonel Grafton should have so long 
beheld me in the feeble attitude of grief. I was determined to 
resume my character. 

“ I must go,” I exclaimed; “ I must leave you to-morrow, 
colonel.” 

It was thus I addressed him on the evening of the third day 
after the family had retired for the night. 

“ Where will you go ?” he asked. The question staggered 
me. Where was I to go ? Should I return to Marengo ? 
Should I be the one to carry suffering to the poor girl whom 
fate had defrauded of her lover ? Could I have strength to 
speak the words of doom and misery ? Impossible ! On my 
own account I had no reason to return. I had nothing to seek 
in that quarter — no hopes to invite my steps—no duty (so I 
fancied then) to impel me to retrace a journey begun with so 
much boldness, and, so far, pursued with so much ill fortune. 

“ I will not return,” my heart said within me. “ I dare not. 
I can not look on Emmeline again. It was my pleadings and 
persuasions, that made her lover my companion in this fatal 
adventure, and how can I meet her eye of reproach ? How 
can I hear her ask—‘Where is he? — why have you not 
brought him back to me ?’ Well did I remember her parting 
directions—‘ Take care of one another.’ Had I taken care of 
him ? I was the more prudent, the more thoughtful and suspi¬ 
cious. I knew him to be careless, frank, free, confiding. Had I 
taken due care of him ? Had I been as watchful as I should have 
been ? Had I not suffered him heedlessly to plunge into the toils 
when a resolute word of mine would have kept him from them?” 

I could not satisfy myself by my answer to these self-pro¬ 
posed questions, and I resolved to go forward. 

“ In the wilds of Mississippi I will bury myself. The bosom 
of the ‘ nation’ shall receive me. I will not look on Marengo 
again. I will write to Emmeline — I will tell her in a letter, 
what I dare not look her in the face and speak.” 

Such was my resolve; a resolve made in my weakness, and 
unworthy of a noble mind. When I declared it to Colonel 
Grafton, with the affectionate interest and freedom of a father, 
he opposed it. 


198 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


“ Pardon me, my young friend, but are you right in this res¬ 
olution ? Is it not your duty to go hack and declare the cir¬ 
cumstances to all those who are interested in the fate of your 
friend ? It will be expected of you. To take any other course 
will seem to show a consciousness of error with which you can 
not reproach yourself. Suspicion will become active, and your 
reluctance, which springs from a natural dislike to give pain, 
will he set down to other and far less honorable motives. Go 
back, Mr. Hurdis — seek the friends of Mr. Carrington and your 
own. Though it wring your heart to tell the cruel story, and 
rend theirs to hear it, yet withhold nothing. Take the counsel 
of one who has seen too much of the world not to speak with 
due precaution, and avoid concealment in all matters of this 
sort. Suppress nothing—let nothing that is at all equivocal 
he coupled with your conduct where it affects the interests of 
others. I have never yet known an instance of departure from 
duty in which the person did not suffer from such departure. 
And it is your duty to relate this matter at large to those who 
were connected with your friend.” 

“But I will write, Colonel Grafton—I will write all, and 
withhold nothing. My duty to the friends and relatives of 
William Carrington can not call for more.” 

“ Your duty to yourself does. It requires that you should 
not shrink from meeting them. Your letter would tell them 
nothing but bald facts. They must see you when you give 
your testimony.. They must see that you feel the pain that 
your duty calls upon you to inflict. When you show them that, 
you give them the only consolation which grief ever demands; 
you give them sympathy, and their sorrows become lessened as 
they look on yours. To this poor maiden, in particular, yon 
owe it.” 

“ Ah ! Colonel Grafton, you can not know the torture which 
must follow such an interview. It was I who persuaded him 
to go on this hapless journey. She heard me plead with him 
to go — my arguments convinced him. She will look on me 
as the cause of all — she will call me his murderer.” 

“ You must bear it all, and bear it with humility, and without 
reply. If she loved this youth, what is your torture to that 
which your words will inflict on her ? You have the selfish 


PAUSE — BUT NOT REPOSE. 


199 


strength and resources of the man to uphold you — what has 
she? Nothing—nothing but the past. Phantoms of memory 
are all that are left to her, and these torture as often as they 
soothe. Do not speak, then, of your sufferings in comparison 
with hers. She must of necessity, be the greatest sufferer, and 
you must submit to see her griefs, and, it may be, to listen to 
her reproaches. These will fall lightly on your ears when you 
can reproach yourself with nothing. If you did not submit to 
them — if you fled from the task before you—in place of her 
reproaches you would have her suspicions, and your own self¬ 
rebuke in all future time.” 

He had put the matter before me in a new light, and, with a 
sigh, I changed my purpose, resolving to start for Marengo in 
the morning. Meanwhile, let me relate the progress of other 
parties to this narrative. 


200 


RICHARD HURD1S. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE ASSASSIN AND HIS EMPLOY 
“ F-ve done the deed.”— Macbeth. 

The murderer of William lay close in the thicket after he 
had done the deed. That murderer was Ben Pickett, and, aa 
the reader may have divined already, his victim had perished 
through mistake. The fatal cause of this was in his employ¬ 
ment of my horse, a circumstance forced upon him by the ne¬ 
cessities of his flight. Pickett knew the horse, and looked no 
further. It was a long shot, from a rising-ground above, where 
the umbrage was thick, and at such a distance that features 
were not clearly distinguishable. The dress of William unfor¬ 
tunately helped the delusion. It was almost entirely like mine. 
We had been so completely associated together for years, that 
our habits and tastes in many respects had become assimilated. 
The murderer, having satisfied himself—which he did at a 
glance—that the horse was mine, it was the prompt conclu¬ 
sion of his mind that I was the rider. Crime is seldom delibe¬ 
rate— the mere act, I mean—the determination may he delib¬ 
erately enough made; but the blow is most usually given in 
haste, as if the criminal dreaded that he might shrink from an 
act already resolved upon. Pickett did not trust himself to 
look a second time before pulling trigger. Had he suffered the 
rider to advance ten paces more, he would have withdrawn the 
sight. The courage of man is never certain hut when he is do¬ 
ing what he feels to he right. The wrong-doer may he despe¬ 
rate- and furious, but he has no composed bearing. Pickett was 
of this sort. He shot almost instantly after seeing the horse 
He was about to come forward when he saw the rider tumble; 
but the sudden approach of the pursuers, whose forms had been 


THE ASSASSIN AND HIS EMPLOYER. 


m 


concealed by the narrow and enclosed “ blind” through which 
vhey passed, compelled him to resume his position, and remain 
quiet. He saw them take charge of the body, but had little 
idea that their aim, like his own, had been vulturous. He saw 
them busy about the prey which his blow had struck down, but 
concluded that they were friends seeking to succor and to save. 
Under any circumstances, his hope of plunder was now cut off, 
and he silently withdrew into the forest, where his horse had 
been hidden, and, hurriedly remounting, commenced his return 
to Marengo. But an eye was upon him that never lost sight 
of him. The keen hunter that Matthew Webber had set upon 
his path had found his track, and pursued it with the unerring 
scent of the bloodhound. More than once the pursuer could 
have shot down the fugitive with a weapon as little anticipated, 
and as unerring, as that which he himself had employed; but 
he had no purpose of this sort in view. He silently followed 
on, keeping close watch upon every movement, yet never suf¬ 
fering himself to be seen. When the murderer paused by the 
wayside, he halted also; when he sped toward evening, he too 
relaxed his reins ; and he drew them up finally, only when he 
beheld the former, with an audacity which he never showed 
while I dwelt in Marengo, present himself at the entrance of 
my father’s plantation, and request to see my brother. The 
pursuer paused also at this moment, and entering a little but 
dense wood on one side of the road, quietly dismounted from 
his horse, which he fastened in the deepest thicket, and, under 
cover of the under-brush, crept forward as nearly as he could, 
to the place where Pickett waited, without incurring any risk 
of detection. 

It was not long before John Hurdis came to the gate, and his 
coward soul made its appearance in his face, the moment that 
ha saw his confederate. His lips grew livid and quivered, his 
cheeks were whiter than his shirt, and his voice so feeble, when 
he attempted to speak, that he could only articulate at all by 
uttering himself with vehemency and haste. 

“ Ah, Pickett, that you ? — well! what V* 

The murderer had not alighted from his horse, and he now 
simply bent forward to the other, as he half whispered— 

“It’s all fixed, ’squire! The nail’s clinched! You can 
y* 


202 


RICHARD 1IURDIS. 


take the road now when you please, and find nothing to trip 
you.” 

“ Ha! but you do not mean it, Ben ? It is not as you say ! 
You have not done it! Are you sure ?—Did you see ?” 

“ It’s done ! —I tell you, as sure’s a gun !” 

“He’s dead, then?” said John Hurdis in a husky whisper— 
“ Richard Hurdis is dead, you say ?” and he tottered forward 
to the rider, with a countenance in which fear and eagerness 
were so mingled as to produce an unquiet shrinking even in the 
bosom of his confederate. 

“ I’ve said it, ’squire, and I’ll say it again to please you ! I 
had dead aim on his button —just here [he laid his hand on his 
breast] — and I saw him tumble and come down all in a heap 
like a bag of feathers. There’s no doctors can do him good 
now, I tell you. He’s laid up so that they won’t take him 
down again—nobody. You can go to sleep now when 'you 
please.” 

The greater felon of the two shrank back as he heard these 
words, and covered his face with his hands. He seemed scarce 
able to stand, and leaned against the posts of the gate for his 
support. A sudden shivering came over him, and when that 
passed off, he laughed brokenly as if with a slight convulsion, 
and the corners of his mouth were twitched until the tears start¬ 
ed in his eyes. To what particular feeling, whether of remorse 
or satisfaction, he owed these emotions, it would be difficult for 
me to say, as it was certainly impossible for his comrade to con- 
oeive. Pickett looked on with wondering, and was half inclined 
to doubt whether his proprietor was not out of his wits. But a 
few moments reassured him as John Hurdis again came forward. 
His tones were more composed, though still unsubdued, when he 
addressed him, and, perhaps, something more of human appre¬ 
hension dwelt upon his countenance. 

“You have told me, Ben Pickett, but I am not certain. 
Richard Hurdis was a strong man—he wouldn’t die easily! 
He would fight—he would strike to the last! How could you 
stand against him? Why, Ben, he would crush you with a 
blow of his fist! He was monstrous strong!” 

“ Why, ’squire, what are you talking about ? Dick Hurdis 
was strong, I know, and stout-hearted. He would hold on till 


THE ASSASSIN AND HIS EMPLOYER. 


203 


his teeth met, for there was no scare in him. But that’s noth ¬ 
ing to the matter now, for, you see, there was no fight at all. 
The rifle did the business—long shot and steady aim; so, you 
see, all his strength went for nothing.” 

“ But how could he let you trap him, Ben Pickett ? Richard 
was suspicious and always on the watch. He wouldn’t fall 
easily into a trap. There must be some mistake, Ben — some 
mistake. You’re only joking with me, Ben; you have not 
found him ? He was too much ahead of you, and got off. 
Well, it’s just as well you let him go. I don’t care. Indeed, 
I’m almost glad you didn’t reach him. He’s in the ‘ nation,’ I 
suppose, by this time ?” 

“ But I did reach him, ’squire,” replied the other, not exactly 
knowing how to account for the purposeless tenor of John Hur- 
dis’s speech, and wondering much at the unlooked-for relenting 
of purpose which it implied. There was something in this last 
sentence which annoyed Pickett as much as it surprised him. 
It seemed to imply that his employer might not be altogether 
satisfied with him when he became persuaded of the truth of 
what he said. He hastened, therefore, to reiterate his story. 

“ He’ll never get nearer to the ‘ nation’ than he is now. I 
tell you, ’squire, I come upon him on a by-road leading out from 
Tuscaloosa, that run along among a range of hills where I kept. 
There was a double hill close by, and the road run through it; 
it was a dark road. I tracked him and Bill Carrington twice 
over the ground. They had business farther down with a man 
named Webber, and they stopped all night with a Colonel Graf¬ 
ton. I got from one of his negroes all about it. Well, I watched 
when he was to ceme back. When I heard them making tracks, 
I put myself in the bush, clear ahead, in a place where they 
couldn’t come upon me till I was clean out of reach. Soon he 
came running like mad, then I give it him, and down he come, 
I tell you, like a miller’s bag struck all in a heap.” 

“ But that didn’t kill him 1 He was only hurt. You’re not 
sure, Ben, that he’s dead ? You didn’t look at him closely ?” 

“ No; dickens ! they were too hard upon me for that. But I 
saw where I must hit him, and I saw him tumble.” 

“ Who were upon you ?” demanded Hurdis. 

“ Whv ; Bill Carrington, and the man he went to see, I sup- 


204 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


pose. I didn’t stop to look; for, just as I sprawled him out 
they came from the road behind him, and I saw no more. You 
didn't tell me that Bill Carrington was going with him.” 

“ No ; I wasn’t certain. I didn’t know. But didn’t Carring¬ 
ton come after you, when you shot Bichard ?” 

“ I reckon he was too much frightened ; he jumped down be¬ 
side the body, and that was all I stopped to see. I made off, 
and fetched a compass through the woods that brought me out 
with dry feet into another road. Then I kept on without stop¬ 
ping, and that’s all I can tell you.” 

“ It was strange Bill Carrington didn’t take after you; he’s 
not a man to be frightened easily.” 

“ He didn’t, though.” 

“ But you’re not sure, Ben, after all. Perhaps you’ve only 
hurt him. You have not killed him, I think. It’s a hard thing 
to shoot certain at a great distance. You were far off, you say V* 

“ A hundred yards, or so, and that’s nothing, being down hill 
too.” 

“ Richard was a tough fellow.” 

“ Tough or not, I tell you, ’squire, he’ll never trouble you 
again! It’s all over with him! They’ve got him under 
ground before this time. I know by the sort of fall he gave 
that he hadn’t any life left. He didn’t know what hurt him.” 

John Hurdis seemed convinced at last. 

“ And yet to think, Ben, that a man so strong as Richard 
should die so sudden! It was only a week ago that he had 
his hand on my throat—he had me down upon the ground — 
he shook me like a feather. And he spoke with a voice that 
went through me. I was like an infant in his hands; I felt 
that he could have torn me in two. And now, you say, he can 
not lift an arm to help himself!” 

“No, not to wave off a buzzard from his carrion!” was the 
reply. 

The arm of John Hurdis fell on the neck of Pickett’s horse 
at these words, and his eyes, with a vacant stare, were fixed 
upon the rider. After a brief pause, he thus proceeded, in a 
muttered soliloquy, rather than an address to his hearer.: — 

“ If Richard would have gone off quietly, and let me alone; 
if—but what’s the use to talk of that now?” He paused, but 


THE ASSASSIN AND HIS EMPLOYER. 


205 


again began, in similar tones and a like spirit: “ He was too 
rasli — too tyrannical! Flesh and blood could not bear with 
him, Ben ! He would have mastered all around him if he could 
—trampled upon all — suffered no life to any — spared no feel¬ 
ings ! He was cruel—cruel to you, and to me, and to all; and 
then to drag me from my horse, and take me, his own brother, 
by the throat! But, it’s all over now. He has paid for it, 
Ben! I wish he hadn’t done it, though; for then—but, no 
matter, this talk’s all very useless now.” 

Here he recovered himself, and in more direct and calmer 
language, thus continued, while giving his agent a part of the 
money which he had promised him : — 

“ Go, now, Pickett—to your own home. Let us not be seen 
together much. Take this money — ’tisn’t all I mean to give 
you. I w r ill bring you more.” 

The willing fellow pocketed the price of blood, and made 
his acknowledgments. Thanks, too, were given by the mur¬ 
derer, as if the balance of credit lay with him who paid in 
money for the life of his fellow-creature. 

“ I will come to you to-night,” continued Hurdis, “ I would 
hear all of this business. I would know more — stay ! What 
is that? Some one comes — hear you nothing, Ben?” 

Guilt had made my wretched brother doubly a coward. The 
big sweat came out and stood upon his forehead, and his eyes 
wore the irresolute expression of one about to fly. The com¬ 
posure with which his companion looked round, half reassured 
him. 

“No—there’s nobody,” said the other, “a squirrel jumped 
in the wood perhaps.” 

“Well—I’ll come to night, Ben- - T T mee- you at the Wil¬ 
lows.” 

“ Won’t you come to the house, ’Squire?” 

“No!” was the abrupt reply, The speaker recollected his 
late interview with the stern wife of his colleague, and had no 
desire to encounter her again : “ No, Ben, I’ll be at the Willows.” 

“ What time, ’Squire ?' 

“ I can’t say, now—but you’ll hear my signal. Three hoots, 
ard a long bark.” 

“Very good — I’ll be sure.” 


206 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


John Hurdis remained at the gate a long time after Pickett 
rode away. He watched his retreating form while it continued 
in sight, then seated himself on the ground where he had been 
standing, and unconsciously, with a little stick, began to draw 
characters in the sand. To the labors of his fingers, his mind 
seemed to be utterly heedless, until, aroused to a sense of what 
he was doing and where he sat, by the approach of some of the 
field negroes returning from the labors of the day. He started 
to his feet as he heard their voices, but how did his guilty 
heart tremble, when his eye took in the letters that he had un¬ 
wittingly traced upon the sand. The word “ murderer” was 
distinctly written in large characters, before his eyes. With a 
desperate, but trembling haste, as if he dreaded lest other eyes 
should behold it too, he dashed his feet over the letters, nor 
stayed his efforts even when they were perfectly obliterated. 
Fool that he was — of what avail was all his toil? He might 
erase the guilty letters from the sand, but they were written 
upon his soul in characters that no hand could reach, and no 
labors obliterate. The fiend was there in full possession, and 
his tortures were only now begun. 


THE SPECTRE. 


207 


CHAPTER XXX 

THE SPECTRE. 

“ Let the earth hide thee.”— Shakspere. 

The mi rderer hurried homeward when this dark conference 
was ended. The affair ir which he had acted so principal, yet 
secondary a part, had exercised a less obvious influence upon 
him than upon the yet baser person who had egged him on to 
the deed. There was no such revulsion of feeling in his bosom, 
as in that of John Hurdis. Endowed with greater nerve at 
first, and rendered obtuse from habit and education, the nicer 
sensibilities — the keener apprehensions of the mind—were 
not sufficiently active in him to warm at any recital, when the 
deed itself, which it narrated, had failed to impress him with 
terror or repentance. If he did not tremble to do, still less was 
he disposed to tremble at the hare story of his misdoings; and 
lie rode away with a due increase of scorn for the base spirit 
and cowardly heart of his employer. And yet, perhaps, Pickett 
had never beheld John Hurdis in any situation in which his 
better feelings had been more prominent. The weaknesses, 
which the one despised, were the only shows of virtue in the 
other. The cowardly wretch, when he supposed the deed to 
have been done on which he had sent his unhesitating messen¬ 
ger—felt, for the first time, that it would not only have been 
wiser but better, to have borne patiently with his wrong, rather 
than so foully to have revenged it. He felt that it would have 
been easier to sleep under the operation of injustice than to be¬ 
come one’s self a criminal. Bitterly indeed did this solemn 
truth grow upon him in the end, when sleep, at length, utterly 
refused to come at his bidding. 

But, though the obvious fears and compunctious visitings of 


208 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


his employer bad provoked the scorn of the murderer, it was 
decreed that he himself should not be altogether free from sim¬ 
ilar weaknesses. They developed themselves before he reached 
his home. It was nearly dusk when he entered the narrow by¬ 
road which led to his habitation — night was fast coming on, 
yet the twilight was sufficiently clear to enable him to distin¬ 
guish objects. Without a thought, perhaps, of the crime of 
which he had been guilty, or rather, without a regretful thought, 
he pursued his way until the road opened upon his dwelling. 
The habitation of his wife and child stood before him. He 
could now see the smoke rising from the leaning clay chimney, 
and his heart rose with the prospect—for the very basest of 
mankind have hearts for their homes—but, all on a sudden, he 
jerked his bridle with a violence that whirled the animal out 
from his path; and then his grasp became relaxed. He had 
strength for no more — he had neither power to advance nor 
fly. In an instant the avenues to all his fears were in posses¬ 
sion of a governing instinct. Guilt and terror spoke in all his 
features. His glazed eyes seemed stalling from tlieir sockets 
—his jaws relaxed—his mouth opened — his hair started up, 
and the cold dews gathered at its roots! What sees he ? — 
what is in his path to make him fear 1 Why does the bold 
ruffian, ready at all times to stab or shoot—why does he lift 
no weapon now ? He is sinewless, aimless, strengthless. There 
rose before him, even at the gate of his hovel, a fearful image 
of the man he supposed himself to have murdered. It stood 
between him and the narrow gateway so that he could not go 
forward in his progress. The gaze of the spectre was earnestly 
bent upon him with such a freezing glance of death and doom 
as the victim might well be supposed to wear in confronting 
his murderer. The bloody hole in his bosom was awfully dis¬ 
tinct to the eyes of the now trembling criminal, who could see 
little or nothing else. His knees knocked together convulsive¬ 
ly—his wiry hair lifted the cap upon his brow. Cold as the 
mildewed marble, yet shivering like an autumn branch waving 
in the sudden winds, he was frozen to the spot where it encoun¬ 
tered him — he could neither speak nor move. Vainly did he 
attempt to lift the weapon in his grasp—his arms were stiffen¬ 
ed to his side—his will was not powerful enough to compel its 


THE SPECTRE. 


209 


natural agents to their duty. He strove to thrust the r 'wel 
into his horse’s flanks, but even to this effort he found himself 
unequal. Twice did he strive to cry aloud to the threatening 
aspect before him, in words of entreaty or defiance, but his 
tongue refused its office. The words froze in his throat, and it 
was only able in a third and desperate effort to articulate words 
which denoted idiocy rather than resolve. 

“ Stand aside, Richard Hurdis—stand aside, or I’ll run over 
you. You would tie me to the tree—you would try hickories 
upon me, would you ] Go—go to John Hurdis now, and he’ll tell 

you I’m not afraid of you. No, d-n my eyes if I am, though 

he is! I’m not afraid of your bloody finger — shake it away — 
shake it away ! There’s a hole in your jacket wants mending, 
man: you’d better see to it ’fore it gets worse. I see the red 
stuff coming out of it now. Go — stand of, or I’ll hurt you ! — 
ptsho — ptsho—ptsho !” 

And, as he uttered this wandering and incoherent language, 
his limbs strengthened sufficiently to enable him, with one hand, 
to employ the action of a person hallooing hogs out of his en¬ 
closure. The sound of his own voice seemed to unfix the spell 
upon him. The ghostly figure sank down before his mazed 
eyes and advancing footsteps, in a heap, like one suddenly 
slain, and as he had seen his victim fall. It lay directly before 
him : he pressed his horse upon it, but it disappeared before he 
reached the spot. A brief space yet lay between the gate and the 
hovel, and, passing through the former, he was about to plunge 
with a like speed toward the latter, when another figure, and one, 
too, much more terrific to the fears of tne ruffian than the first, 
took its place, and the person of William Carrington emerged at 
that moment from the dwelling itself, and stoc d before him in the 
doorway ! If Pickett trembled before under ais superstitious im¬ 
aginings, he trembled now with apprehensions of a more human 
description. It was the vulgar fear of the fugitive that pos¬ 
sessed him now. He felt that he was pursued. He saw before 
him the friend of the man he had murdered, speeding in hot 
haste to wreak vengeance on his murderer. In the dread of 
cord or shot, he lost in a single instant all his former and para¬ 
lyzing terror arising from the blighting visitation of the world 
of spirits. He was no longer frozen by fear. He was strength- 


210 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


ened and stimulated for flight by the appearance of f .arrington. 
He turned the head of his horse, and, with the movement, the 
avenger advanced upon him. He felt that there was no es¬ 
cape. There was no hope in flight. In desperation, he threw 
himself from the animal—lifted his rifle, and, in taking deadly 
aim upon the figure, was surprised to see it move away with 
rapid footsteps and sink into the neighboring woods, in the 
shadow of which it was soon lost from sight. The conduct of 
Carrington was more mysterious to the criminal than was the 
appearance of the spectre just before. If he came as the 
avenger of his friend, how strange that he should fly ! And 
how could such timidity be believed of one so notoriously brave 
as the man in question ? The wonder grew in his mind the 
more he reviewed it, and he found it easier to continue in 
his wonderment than to seek by any reference to his past 
experience and present thoughts for any solution of the mys¬ 
tery. 

Pale and cold with fright, he at last entered his hovel with¬ 
out further interruption. The anxious and searching eyes of 
his wife beheld in an instant the disordered emotion so promi¬ 
nent in his, and her fears were renewel. 

“What is it, Ben—what disturbs you? why do you look 
around so ?” she demanded. 

“ How long has he been here ? when did he come ? what 
does he want ?” were the rapid questions which the criminal 
uttered in reply. 

“ Who — who has been here ? of whom do you ask ?” was the 
response of the astonished wife. 

“Why, Bill Carrington, to be sure — who else? I saw him 
come out of the door just this minute, and take to the woods. 
What did he want? where’s he gone?—who’s he looking for 
— eh ?” 

“You’re sick, Ben,” said the wife; your head’* disordered. 
STou’d better lie down.” 

“ Can’t you answer me a plain question ?” was his peremp¬ 
tory answer to her suggestion; “ I ask you what Bill Carring¬ 
ton wanted with me or with you ?” 

“He? — nothing that I know of. He hasn’t been here, 
Ben.” 


THE SPECTRE. 


211 


“ The devil you say? Better tell me I’m drunk — when 1 
saw him, with my own eyes, come out just a moment ago, and 
take to the woods !” 

“ You may have seen him in the woods, but I’m sure you 
didn’t see him come out of this house. I’ve been in this room 
for the last hour — never once out of it—and nobody but my¬ 
self and Jane in it — and nobody’s been here that either of us 
has seen.” 

The man turned to Jane, and, reading in her eyes a confirma¬ 
tion of her mother’s speech, he looked vacantly around him for 
a few moments; then lifting his rifle, which he had leaned up 
within the entrance, rushed out of the house, and hurried to the 
woods in search of the person whom he had seen disappear 
there. He was gone for an hour, when he returned exhausted. 
In that time his search had been close and thorough for a cir¬ 
cuit of several miles, in all those recesses which he had been 
accustomed to regard as hiding-places, and which, it may be 
added, he had repeatedly used as such. The exhaustion that 
followed his disappointment was an exhaustion of mind rather 
than of body. The vagueness and mystery which attended all 
these incidents had utterly confounded him, and when he re¬ 
turned to the presence of his wife he almost seemed to lack the 
facilities of speech and hearing. He spoke but little, and, ob¬ 
serving his fatigue, and probably ascribing his strange conduct 
to a sudden excess of drink, his wife prudently forebore all 
unnecessary remarks and questions. 

Night hurried on; darkness had covered the face of the earth, 
and in silence the wife and idiot child of the criminal had com¬ 
menced their evening meal, Pickett keeping his place at the 
fireside without heeding the call to supper. A stupor weighed 
down all his faculties, and he almost seemed to sleep; but a 
slight tap at the entrance — a single tap, gentle as if made by 
a woman-hand soliciting admission—awakened in an instant 
all the guilty consciousness that could not sleep in the bosom 
of the criminal. He started to his feet in terror. The keen 
and searching glance of his wife was fixed upon his face, and 
heedful of every movement of his person. She said nothing; 
but her looks were so full of inquiry, that it needed no words 
to make Pickett aware that her soul was alarmed and appro- 


212 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


hensive She looked as if feeling that all her previous fears 
were realized. The knock at the entrance was repeated. 

“ Shall I open it, Ben ?” was her question, and her eyes mo¬ 
tioned him to a window in the rear. But he did not heed the 
obvious suggestion. Gathering courage as he beheld her glance, 
and saw her suspicions, he crossed the floor to the entrance, 
boldly lifted the bar which secured it, and in firm tones bade 
the unknown visiter “ Come in.” 


THE MYSTIC BROTHERHOOD. 


213 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE MYSTIC BROTHERHOOD. 

-•< Our coming 

I* not for salutation — we have business.”— Catiline. 

The stranger boldly stepped into the light as the door was 
cpened for him. The heart of Pickett sank within him on the 
instant, for guilt is a thing of continual terrors; hut his glance 
was fixed on the person without recognition, and there was 
nothing in the air or visage of the intruder to excite alarm. 
His dark, swarthy features and sinister eye were, it is true, suf¬ 
ficiently unprepossessing; but these were evidently the habitual 
features of the man, and, being in repose, gave no occult ex¬ 
pression to his countenance. His guise was common enough, 
consisting of the common blue-and-white homespun of the coun¬ 
try, and this bespattered with mud as if he had been long a 
traveller. He demanded traveller’s fare, and begged to be 
accommodated for the night. There was no denial of so small 
a boon, even in the humblest cottage of Alabama; and though 
Pickett would rather have had no company, he could not yet 
refuse. 

“ Well,” said Pickett, “ we are not in the habit of taking in 
travellers; but if you can make out with a blanket by the chim¬ 
ney, you can have it — it’s all I can give you.” 

“ Good enough,” said the stranger; “ I’m not particular. 
Room by the chimney, and light wooa enough for a blaze, and 
I’m satisfied.” 

“Have you had supper?” demanded Mrs. P ckett; “we can 
give you some hoe-cake and bacon.” 

“ Thank you, ma’am, but I took a bite from my bag about an 
hour ago, as I crossed a branch coming on, which baited my 
hunger. I won’t trouble you to get anything more.” 


214 


RICHARD HUEDIS. 


“ You’re from below ?” asked Pickett, with some show of cu¬ 
riosity. 

“No—:fr<]m above.” 

“ Do you go much farther ?” 

“ I think not; I’ve got business in these parts, and shall re¬ 
turn when it’s over.” 

“ You’ve a horse to see to V* 

“No, I foot it—I’m a very poor man.” 

The lie was uttered with habitual readiness. The emissary 
had hidden and hoppled his horse in the neighboring woods. 
He was too well practised in his art to forego every precaution 
Pickett had no other questions, and but little more was said foi 
the time by either of the parties, all of whom seemed equally 
taciturn. The wife of Pickett alone continued anxious. The 
searching glance of the stranger did not please her, though it 
appeared to have its impulse in curiosity alone. Perhaps, sus¬ 
pecting her husband’s guilt, all circumstances removed from 
those of ordinary occurrence provoked her apprehensions. With 
a just presentiment, she had trembled on the stranger’s knock 
and entrance, and every added moment of his stay increased 
her fears. She had as yet had no conference with Pickett, 
touching the business which carried him abroad; and the pres¬ 
ence of their guest denied her all opportunity for the satisfac¬ 
tion of her doubts. Her evident disquiet did not escape the 
notice of her husband, but he ascribed it in his own mind to her 
desire to go to bed, which, as they all slept in the same apart¬ 
ment, was rendered somewhat difficult by the presence of the 
new-comer. His coarse mind, however, soon made this diffi¬ 
culty light. * 

“Go to bed, Betsy — don’t mind us; or, to make the matter 
easy, what say you, stranger, to a bit of a walk—the night’s 
clear, and not cold neither? We’ll just step out till the old 
woman lies down, if you please.” 

“To be sure,” said the other; “I was about to propose the 
same thing to you.” 

The fears of Pickett were newly roused by this seemingly 
innocent declaration of the stranger — a declaration which, at 
another time, would not have tasked a thought. 

“ Why should he wish to take me out to walk with him at 


THE MYSTIC BROTHERHOOD. 


215 


night'—why should he propose such a thing?” wa> his inward 
inquiry; and with hesitating steps he conducted the suspicious 
guest fi om the hovel into the open ground before it. 

“ I was just going to propose the same thing to you,” said the 
stranger the moment they had got there, “ for, do you see, it 
isn’t to lodge with you only that I come. I have business with 
you, my friend — business of great importance.” 

If Pickett was alarmed before, he was utterly confounded 
now. 

“Business with me !” he cried, in undisguised astonishment; 
“what business — what business can you have with me?” and 
he stopped full and confronted the stranger as he spoke. 

“Well, that’s what I’m going to tell you now, but not here; 
walk farther from the house, if you please — let’s go into this 
thicket.” 

“ Into the thicket! No, I’m d-d if I do !” cried the now 

thoroughly-alarmed Pickett. “ I’ll go into the thicket with no 
stranger that I don’t know. I don’t see what business you can 
have with me at all; and if you have any, you can just as well 
out with it here as anywhere else.” 

“ Oh, that’s just as you please,” said the other coolly; “ it 
was for your sake only that I proposed to go into the thicket, 
for the business is not exactly proper for everybody to hear; 
and there’s no use in calling the high-road to counsel.” 

“ For my sake ? What the d—1 do you mean, my friend ? 
It’s your business, not mine: why is it for my sake that you 
would have me go into the thicket ?” 

“ Because it might bring you into trouble, if any ears besides 
our own were to hear me,” replied the stranger with indiffer¬ 
ence. “ For my part, I don’t care mu »h where it is said, only 
to save you from any trouble.” 

“Me from trouble—me from trouble! I don’t know what 
you can mean; but if you’re serious, where would you have 
me go ?” 

“ There—that thicket will do. It looks dark enough for our 
business.” 

The stranger pointed to a dense grove in the neighborhood, 
but on the opposite side of the road — a part of the same forest 
in which the reader will remember to have witnessed an inter- 


216 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


view between John Hurdis and Jane the idiot girl. Not know¬ 
ing what to fear, yet fearing everything, the murderer followed 
the stranger, whom he now regarded as his evil genius. The 
other was passing more deeply into the woods, after having en¬ 
tered them, than Pickett seemed to think necessary for his 
object, and the voice of the latter arrested him. 

“ Dark enough for your business, it may be, but quite too 
dark for mine. I’ll go no farther. You can say here all you’ve 
got to say, no matter what it is. I’m not afraid, and I think it 
something strange that you should want me to go into the bush 
in a dark night with a person I don’t know. I don’t somehow 
like it altogether. I’m not sure that it’s safe. I mean no harm, 
but it’s not the best sense in the world to trust people one don’t 
know.” 

“ Lord love you,” said the other, with a quiet tone of con¬ 
tempt, “ you’re more scary than I thought you. There’s noth¬ 
ing to be frightened at in me; my business is peaceable, and 
I’m a peaceable man. I don’t carry a rifle, and I never tum¬ 
bled a fellow from his horse at a hundred yards, in all my life, 
so far as I can recollect now.” 

These words were uttered with the utmost coolness, and as if 
they were entirely without peculiar signification. The effect 
upon the hearer was almost paralyzing, as it was instantaneous. 
He started, as if he had been himself shot—for a moment was 
silent, under the obvious imputation contained in the last sen¬ 
tence of his companion’s speech—then recovering himself, with 
the blustering manner of the bully, he addressed the other, who 
saw, in the dim light which surrounded them, that Pickett’s hand 
was thrust into the bosom of his vest, as if in search of some con¬ 
cealed weapon. 

“ How ! you do not mean to say, that I ever did such a thing? 
If you do—” 

“ Put up your knife, brother, and keep your hand and voice 
down. Lift either too high, and I have that about me which 
would drive you into the middle of next summer, if you only 
looked at me to strike.” 

Such was the stern reply of the stranger, whose tones changed 
promptly with the circumstances. Pickett felt himself in the 
presence of a master. He was cowed. He released his hold 


THE MYSTIC BROTHERHOOD. 


217 


upon the weapon, which he had grasped in his bosom, and low¬ 
ering the sounds of his voice in obedience to the stranger’s 
requisition, he replied in more conciliatory language. 

“ What mean you, my friend ? What is the business that 
brings you here ? What would you have with me, and why do 
you threaten me ?” 

“Your hand!” said the other deliberately, while extending 
his own. 

“There it is; and now, what?” Pickett reluctantly com¬ 
plied. 

“ Only that you are one of us now—that’s all.” 

“ One of us—how ! who are you? — what mean you?” 

“Everything. You are a made man—your fortunes are 
made. You’ve become one of a family that can do everything 
for you, and will do it, if you’ll let them.” 

The silence of Pickett expressed more wonder than his words 
could have done. The other went on without heeding a feeble 
attempt which he made at reply. 

“ You’ve volunteered to do some of our business, and have, 
therefore, joined our fraternity.” 

“Your business! what business—what fraternity? I don’t 
know, my friend, what you possibly can mean.” 

“ I’ll tell you then, and put you out of suspense. You’re just 
from Tuscaloosa, where you’ve taken some trouble off our hands. 
I’ve come to thank you for it, and to do you some kindness in 
return. One good turn deserves another you know, and this 
that you have done for us, deserves a dozen.” 

The wonder of Pickett was increased. He almost gasped in 
uttering another request to hear all that the other had to say. 

“ Why, it’s soon said,” he replied. “ You shot a lad two days 
ago, near the ‘ shade,’ up beyond Tuscaloosa—” 

“Who says — who saw—it is a lie—a d—d lie !” cried the 
criminal, in husky and feeble accents, while quivering at the 
same time with mingled rage and fear. 

“ Oh, pshaw !” said the other, “ what’s the use of beating about 
the bush. I saw you tumble the lad myself, and I’ve followed 
upon your trail ever since—” 

“ But you shall follow me no more! One of us must give 

10 


218 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


way to the other!” cried the criminal in screaming accents, 
and, while drawing his knife with one hand, he aimed to grasp 
the throat of the stranger with the other. But the latter was 
too wily a scout to become an easy victim. He had watched 
his man, even as the cat watches the destined prey—to whom 
she suffers a seeming freedom and sacrifices at the very moment 
of its greatest apparent security. With the movement of Pick¬ 
ett to strike, was that of the stranger to defend himself—nor to 
defend himself only. The strength of the former was far inferi¬ 
or to that of the man whom he assailed, and instead of taking 
him by the throat, he found his grasp eluded, and, at the same 
moment, the arm which held the weapon, was secured in a gripe 
which effectually baffled all his efforts at release. 

“ Don’t be rash!” said the stranger, with a laugh in which 
there was no sign of anger. “Don’t be rash—it’s of no use! 
You’re only fighting against your own good, and your powder’s 
wasted on me. I’m too much for you, and that’s enough to 
make you quiet. But there’s another and a better reason than 
that to keep you quiet. I’m your friend, I tell you — your best 
friend — and I can bring you many friends. I’m come all this 
distance to befriend you; and, if you’ll have patience and be 
civil, you’ll soon see how.” 

“ Let go my arm!” said Pickett, chafing furiously, but still 
ineffectually, so far as his own efforts to release himself were 
concerned. 

“Well, I’ll do that,” said the stranger, releasing him at the 
same instant; “ but, mind me, if you try to use it again, as you 
did just now, it will be*worse for you! I never suffer a dog to 
worry me twice. I’m sure to draw his teeth, so that he will 
bite no other; and, if you lift that knife at me again, I’ll put a 
plug into your bosom, that will go quite as deep, if not deeper, 
than your bullet did in the bosom of that young fellow!” 

“You know not what you say—you saw not that!” was the 
faint answer of Pickett. 

“ It’s a true bill, man, and I’ll swear to it! How should I 
know it, if I did not see it? I saw the lad tumble — saw you 
scud from the place, rifle in hand, and take to your creature, 
which was fastened to a dwarf poplar, i u a little wood of pop¬ 
lars. What say you to that ? Is it not true 1” 


THE MYSTIC BROTHERHOOD. 219 

Pickett leaned against a tree, silent and exhausted. He had 
no answer. The fates had tracked him to his den. 

“Nay! fear nothing, though I know your secret,” said the 
other, approaching him. “You are in no sort of danger—not 
from me, at least; on the contrary, you have done our friends a 
service—have saved them from the trouble of doing the very 
thing that we would have had to do for ourselves. Three of us 
pursued the man that you shot; and, if he had got away, which 
he must have done, but for your bullet, it would have been an 
ugly and losing matter for us. You did us good service then, 1 
tell you—you volunteered to be one of our strikers , and we 
have got the game. The search of the body gave us a rich 
booty, and his death a degree of safety, which we might not 
else have enjoyed.” 

“Well; wasn’t that enough for you? Why did you come 
after me ?” demanded Pickett, bitterly. “ Why follow me with 
your infernal secret ?” 

“ Lord love you ! to give you your share of the spoil, to be 
sure — what else? Do you think us so mean as to keep all for 
ourselves, and give none to a man who did, I may say, the dirt¬ 
iest part of the business ? Oh, no, brother ! no ! I’ve brought 
you your share of the booty. Here it is. You will see when 
you come to look at it, that we are quite as liberal as we should 
be. You have, here, a larger amount, than is usually given to 
a striker .” And, as the stranger spoke these words, he pulled 
out something from his pocket, which he presented to his as¬ 
tonished auditor. Pickett thrust away the extended hand, as 
he replied:— 

“ I want none of it! I will have no share — I am not one of 
you !” 

“But that’s all nonsense, my brother. You must take it. 
You must be one of us. When a striker refuses his share, we 
suspect that something’s going wrong, and he takes his share, 
or he pays for it, by our laws,” was the reply of the stranger, 
who continued to press the money upon him. 

“Your laws!—of what laws—of whom do you speak?” 

“Of our fraternity, to be sure!—of the Mystic Brotherhood 
Perhaps, you have never heard of the Mystic Brotherhood ?” 

“ Never.” 


220 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


“You are unfortunate to have lived long enough to be wise 
Let me enlighten you. The Mystic Brotherhood consists of a 
parcel of bold fellows, who don’t like the laws of the state ex¬ 
actly, and of other societies, and who have accordingly asso¬ 
ciated together, for the purpose of making their own, and doing 
business under them. As we have no money of our own, and 
as we must have money, we make it legal to take it from other 
people When they will not shut their eyes and suffer us to 
take it without trouble, we shut them up ourselves; a task for 
the proper doing of which we have a thousand different modes. 
One of these, the task of a striker , you employed in our behalf, 
and very effectually shut up for us, the eyes of that fbolish 
young fellow, who had already given us some trouble, and, but 
for you, might have given us a great deal more. Having done 
so well, we resolved to do you honor — to make you one of us, 
and give you all the benefits of our institution, as they are en¬ 
joyed by every other member. We have our brethren in all 
the states, from Virginia to Louisiana, and beyond into the ter¬ 
ritories. Some of our friends keep agencies for us, even so far 
as the Sabine, and we send negroes to them daily.” 

“ Negroes ! what negroes—have you negroes V* 

“Yes! when we take them. We get the negroes to run 
away from their owners, then sell them to others, get them to 
run away again, and, in this way, we probably sell the same 
negro half a dozen times. This is one branch of our business, 
and might suit you. When the affair gets too tangled, and we 
apprehend detection, we tumble the negro into a river, and thus 
rid ourselves of a possession that has paid good interest already, 
and which it might not be any longer safe to keep.” 

“ What! you kill the negro V* 

“Yes; you may say so. We dispose of him.” 

“ And how many persons have you in the brotherhood V* 

“ Well, I reckon we stretch very nigh on to fifteen hundred ?” 
“ Fifteen hundred ! is it possible ! — so many V* 

“ Yes; and we are increasing daily. Let me give you the 
first sign, brother—the sign of a striker.” 

“ No !” cried Pickett, shrinking back. “ I will not join you! 
I do not know the truth of what you say ! I never heard the 
like before ! I will have nothing to do in this business !” 


THE MYSTIC BROTHERHOOD. 221 

“You must!” was the cool rejoinder — “ you must! Nobody 
shall strike for us, without becoming one of us.” 

“And suppose I refuse?” said Pickett. 

“ Then I denounce you as a murderer, to the grand jury,” 
was the cool reply. “ I will prove you to have murdered this 
youth, and bring half a dozen beside myself to prove it.” 

“ What, if I tell all that you have told me, of your brother¬ 
hood ?” 

“ Pshaw ! brother, you are dreaming. What, if you do tell; 
who will you get to believe you—where’s your proofs? But I 
will prove all that I charge you with, by a dozen witnesses. 
Even if it were not true, yet could I prove it.” 

The discomfited murderer perspired in his agony. The net 
was completely drawn around him. 

“ Don’t be foolish, brother,” said the emissary of a fraternity, 
upon the borders of the new states, the history of which, al¬ 
ready in part given to the public, is a dreadful chronicle of 
desperate crime, and insolent incendiarism. “Don’t be fool¬ 
ish ! you can’t help yourself—you must be one of us, whether 
you will or not! We can’t do without you—we have bought 
you out! If you take our business from us, you must join part¬ 
nership, or we must shut up your shop ! We can’t have any 
opposition going on. The thing’s impossible — insufferable! 
Here—take your share of the money. It will help you to be¬ 
lieve in us, and that’s a great step toward making you comply 
with my demand. Nay! don’t hold back, I tell you, brother; 
you must go with us now, body and soul, or you hang, by the 
Eternal!” 

Base and wretched as was the miserable Pickett, in morals 
and in condition, he was not yet so utterly abandoned as to feel 
easy. under the necessity so imperatively presented to him. 
The character of his wife, noble amid poverty and all its conse¬ 
quent forms of wretchedness, if it had not lifted his own stand¬ 
ards of feeling and of thought beyond his own nature, had the 
effect, at least, of making him conceal, as much as he could, his 
deficiencies from her. Here was something more to conceal, 
and this necessity was, of itself, a pang to one, having but the 
one person to confide in, and feeling so great a dependence 
upon that one. This step estranged him still further from her, 


222 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


and while he passionately took the proffered money, and looked 
upon the uncouth and mystic sign which the other made before 
him, in conferring his first degree of membership, the cold 
sweat stood upon his face in heavy drops, and an icy weight 
seemed contracting about his heart. He felt as if he had bound 
himself, hand and foot, and was about to be delivered over to 
the executioner. 


MORE SNARES. 


223 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

MORE SNARES. 

-“We should know each other: 

As to my character for what men call crime, 

Seeing I please my senses as I list, 

And vindicate that right with force or guile, 

It is a public matter, and I care not 
If I discuss it with you.” — The Cenex. 

The emissary of the Mystic Brotherhood, which had just con¬ 
ferred the honors of its membership on one who so richly de¬ 
served them, though pursuing his labors with the rigid direct¬ 
ness of an ordinary business habit, and confining himself thereto 
with a degree of strictness and method not common to the wick¬ 
ed, was yet by no means a niggard in his communications. He 
unfolded much of the history of that dangerous confederacy, 
which it is not thought necessary to deliver here ; and his hearer 
became gradually and fully informed of the extent of its re¬ 
sources and ramifications. Yet these gave him but little satis¬ 
faction. He found himself one of a clan numbering many hun¬ 
dred persons, having the means of procuring wealth, which had 
been limited to him heretofore simply because of his singleness, 
and not because of any better principle which he possessed; 
and yet he shuddered to find himself in such a connection. The 
very extensiveness of the association confounded his judgment, 
and filled him with terrors. He was one of those petty villains 
who rely upon cunning and trick, rather than audacity and 
strength, to prosecute their purposes; and while the greater 
number of the clan found their chief security in a unity of pur¬ 
pose and a concentration of numbers, which in the end enabled 
them for a season to defy and almost o\ erthrow the laws of 
society, he regarded this very circumstance as that which, above 
all others, must greatly contribute to the risk and dangers of 



224 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


detection. The glowing accounts of his companions, which de 
scribed their successes—their profitable murders, fearless bur¬ 
glaries, and a thousand minor offences, such as negro, horse 
stealing, and petty thefts—only served to enlarge the vision with 
which he beheld his fears; and, dull and wretched, he returned 
with his guest to the miserable hovel, now become doubly so 
since his most humiliating enlightenment, and the formation of 
his new ties. His wife and daughter, meanwhile, had retired 
for the night; but the woman did not sleep. She was filled 
with apprehensions for her husband scarcely less imposing than 
those which troubled him for himself; yet little did she dream 
how completely he was in the thrall of that power from which 
her own severe and fruitless virtues had been utterly unable at 
all times to restrain him. Her wildest fear never imagined a 
bond so terrible as that which had been imposed upon him in 
the last half-hour. 

“ Whenever you want to lie down, stranger, you can do so. 
There’s your blanket. I’m sorry there’s no better for you.” 
It was with difficulty that Pickett brought himself to utter these 
common words of courtesy. 

“ Good enough,” said the other — “ I’ll take it a little closer 
by the fire; and, if you have no objection, I’ll throw a stick or 
two on. I’ve slept in a better bed, it’s true, but I’ll be satisfied 
if I never sleep in a worse.” 

The hesitating utterance of her husband, and the cool and 
ready reply of their guest, did not escape the keen hearing of 
the woman. Pickett muttered something in answer to this 
speech, and then threw himself, without undressing, upon the 
bed. The other followed the example, and in a few moments 
his form, stretched at length before the fireplace, lay as quietly 
as if he were already wrapped in the deepest slumbers. This 
appearance was, however, deceptive. The emissary had not 
yet fulfilled all his duties; and he studiously maintained him¬ 
self in watchfulness, the better to effect his objects. Believing 
him to be asleep, however, the anxieties of Pickett’s wife 
prompted her, after a while, to speak to her miserable husband, 
with whom, as yet, she had had no opportunity of private 
speech; but her whispered accents were checked by the appre¬ 
hensive criminal on the first instant of their utterance. With 


MORE SNARES. 


225 


a quick and nervous gripe he grasped her arm in silence, and, 
in this manner, without a word, put a stop to her inquiries. In 
silence, thus, and yet with equal watchfulness, did the three 
remain, for the space of two goodly hours. The night was ad 
vancing, and Pickett began to hope that John Ilurdis would 
fail to keep his promise; but the hope had not been well formed 
in his mind, before he heard the signal agreed upon between 
them — three hoots and a bark — and, in a cold agony that 
found in every movement a pitfall, and an enemy in every bush, 
he prepared to rise and go forth to his employer. 

“ Where would you go ?” demanded the woman in a hurried 
whisper, which would not be repressed, and she grasped his 
arm as she spoke. She, too, had heard the signal, and readily 
divined its import when she saw her husband preparing to 
leave her. 

“Nowhere — what’s the matter?—lie still, and don’t be fool¬ 
ish !” was his'reply, uttered also in a whisper, while with some 
violence he disengaged his arm from her grasp. She would 
have still detained him. 

“ Oh, Ben !” was all she said, and the still, whispered accents 
went through him with a warning emphasis that well reminded 
him of that good counsel which he had before rejected, and 
which he bitterly cursed himself for not having followed. 

“She was right,” he muttered to his own heart — “she was 
right: had I listened to what she said, and let John Hurdis do 
his own dirty work, I would have had no such trouble. But 
it’s too late now — too late ! I must get through it as I may.” 

He rose, and, silently opening the door, disappeared in the 
night. He had scarcely done so, when the emissary prepared 
to follow him. The wife saw the movement with terror, and, 
coughing aloud, endeavored in this way to convince the stranger 
that she was wakeful like himself; but her effort to discourage 
him from going forth proved fruitless: he gave her no heed, 
and she beheld him, with fear and trembling, depart almost in¬ 
stantly after her husband. She could lie in bed no longer; but 
rising, hurried to the door, which she again opened, and gazed 
anxiously out upon the dim and speechless trees of the neigh¬ 
boring forests with eyes that seemed to penetrate into the very 
dimmest of their recesses. She looked without profit. She 

10 * 


226 


RICHARD I1URDIS. 


saw nothing. The forms of both her husband and his guest 
were nowhere visible. Should she pursue them 1 This was 
at once her thought, but she dismissed it as idle a moment after. 
Shivering with cold, and under the nameless terrors in her ap¬ 
prehension, she re-entered the hovel, and closed the entrance. 

“ God be with me,” she cried, sinking on her knees beside 
the miserable pallet where she had passed so many sleepless 
nights; “God be with me, and with him! We have need of 
thee, 0 God—both of us have need of thee. Strengthen me, 
0 God, and save him from his enemies! The hand of the 
tempter is upon him—is upon him even now. I have striven 
with him, and I plead with him in vain. Thou only, blessed 
Father—thou only, who art in heaven, and art all-merciful on 
earth—thou only canst save him! He is weak and yielding 
where he should be strong, timid when he should be bold, and 
bold only where- it is virtue to be fearful. Strengthen him 
when he is weak, and let him be weak where he would be 
wicked. Cut him not off in thy wrath, but spare him to me — 
to this poor child — to himself! He is not fit to perish: pro¬ 
tect him ! He’s-What is this—who ? Is it you, Jane ? Is 

it you, my poor child ?” 

The idiot girl had crawled to her unseen, during her brief 
but energetic apostrophe to the Eternal, and, with a simpering, 
half-sobbing accent, testified her surprise at the unwonted ve¬ 
hemence and seeming unseasonableness of her mother’s prayers. 
With increasing energy of action, the woman clasped the girl 
around the waist, and dragged her down upon the floor beside 
her. 

“ Put up your hands, Jane !” was her exclamation ; “ put up 
your hands with me! pray—pray with me. Pray to God, to 
deliver us from evil — your father from evil—from his own, and 
the evil deeds of other men ! Speak out, child, speak fast, and 
pray — pray!” 

“ Our Father who art in heaven ”—The child went on with 
the usual adjuration which had been a possession of mere mem¬ 
ory from her infancy; while the mother, with uplifted hands, 
but silent thoughts, concluded her own heartfelt invocation to 
the God of bounty and protection. She felt that she could do 
no more; yet much rather would she have followed her husband 


MORE SNARES. 227 

into the woods, and dragged him away from the grasp of the 
tempter, than knelt that moment in prayer. 

Pickett meanwhile, little dreaming that he was watched, hur¬ 
ried to the place assigned for meeting John Hurdis, among the 
willows. The emissary followed close behind him. It was no 
part of his plan to leave the former ignorant of his proper 
quality ; and the first intelligence which he had of his approach 
was the sound of his voice, which sank into the heart of Pickett 
like an ice-bolt. He shivered and stopped when he heard it, 
as if by an instinct. His will would have prompted him to fly, 
and leave it behind for ever, but his feet were fastened to the 
earth. “ What's the matter ? why do you come after me V* he 
asked. 

“ I’ll go along with you, brother,” said the stranger coolly in 
reply. 

“As you will, but why? You don't think I’m running off 
from you, do you ?” 

“No !—that you can’t do, brother, even if you would. We 
have eyes all around us, that suffer no movement by any of 
us to be made unseen; and, if you do run, such are our laws, 
that I should have to follow you. But I know your business, 
and wish for an introduction to your friend.” 

“ My friend !” exclaimed Pickett in profound astonishment - 
“what friend? — I know of no friend.” 

“ Indeed ! but you must surely be mistaken; your memory 
is confused, I see. The friend you’re going to meet: is he not 
your friend ?” 

“ I’m going to meet no friend—” 

“ Surely you are ! Brother, you wouldn’t deceive me, would 
you ? Didn’t I hear the owl’s hoot, and the dog’s bark ? I 
wasn’t asleep, I tell you. I heard the signal as well as you.” 

“ Owl’s hoot and dog’s bark ? why, that’s no signal in these 
parts,” said Pickett, with a feeble attempt at laughter which 
failed utterly ; “ you may hear owls and dogs all night, if you 
listen to them. We are wiser than to do that.” 

The other replied in graver accents than usual: — 

“ I’m afraid, brother, you are not yet convinced of the powers 
of the Mystic Brotherhood, or you wouldn’t suppose me to Rave 
_,een neglectful of the duties they sent me upon. T tell you, 


228 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


they gave it to me in charge to follow you, and to find out who 
and what you were; to learn your motives for killing the youth 
that we were in pursuit of; and to take all steps for making so 
good a shot and ready a hand one of our own. Do you think I 
lost sight of you for a single instant from that time to this ? Be 
sure I did not. No !—I saw you from the moment you took 
your nag from the stunted poplar, where you fastened him. I 
marked every footstep you have taken since. When you stopped 
at that plantation, and told your friend of your success—” 

“ Great God ! you didn’t hear what we said V* 

“ Every syllable. That was a most important part of my ser¬ 
vice : I wouldn’t have missed a word or look of that conference.” 

Pickett turned full upon the inflexible emissary, and gazed 
upon him with eyes of unmixed astonishment and terror. When 
he spoke at length, it was in accents of mingled despair and 
curiosity: — 

“ And wherefore was this important ? Of what use will it be 
to you to know that I was working for another man in this 
business ?” 

“ It helps us to another member of the Mystic Brotherhood, 
my brother. It strengthens our arm ; it increases our resources; 
it ripens our strength, and hastens our plans. He, too, must be 
one of us ! It is for this I seek to know him.” 

“ But there’s no need with him,” said Pickett. 

“ How—no need V ’ 

“ He’s rich; he’s not in want of money, as we are. Why 
should he be one of us 

“ To keep what he’s got,” said the other coolly. 

“ But, suppose he won’t join you ?” 

“We’ll hang him, then, my brother ! You shall prove that 
he was the murderer !” 

“ The devil you say !—but I’ll do no such thing.” 

“ Then, brother, we must hang you both !” 

The eyes of Pickett looked the terror that his lips could not 
speak; and, without further words, he led the way to the place 
of meeting, urging no further opposition to a will before which 
his own quailed in subjection. 


DOMINO! — THE GAME BLOCKED. 


229 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

DOMINO! — THE GAME BLOCK!D. 

-“Now we are alone, sir; 

And thou hast liberty to unload the burden 
Which thou groan’st under.” — Massinger. 

There is no fascination in tlie snake, true or fabled, of more 
tenacious hold upon the nature of the victim, than was that of 
the emissary of the Mystic Brotherhood upon the miserable 
creature Pickett. A wretch horn in degradation, living as it 
were ly stealth, and in constant dread of penal atonement, life 
was torture enough of itself, when it came coupled with the 
constant fear of justice. But when to this danger was added 
that of an accountability to a power no less arbitrary than the 
laws, and wholly illegitimate, the misery of the wretch was com¬ 
plete. But if such was the influence of such a condition over 
Pickett’s mind, what must it be over the no less dishonorable 
and far more base offender who employed him? Though a 
murderer — a cold-blooded, calculating murderer, who could 
skulk behind a bush, and shoot down his victim from a covert, 
without warning made, or time given for preparation—he was 
yet hardy enough, if he had the sensibility for hate, to avenge 
his wrong by his own hand, and not by that of an agent. 

John Hurdis had proved himself deficient even in this doubt¬ 
ful sort of courage. He could smile, and be the villain—could 
desire and devise the murder of his enemy—but wanted even 
the poor valor of the murderer. What must he the feeling, the 
fear, of his leprous heart, when he is taught his true condition 
— when he finds his secret known — when he feels himself in 
the power of a clan having a thousand tongues, and hourly ex¬ 
posing themselves to a thousand risks of general detection ? It 
would have been a sight for study, to behold those three vil 



230 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


lains gathered together in that nocturnal interview : Hurdis — 
his soul divided between triumph and horror — eager to learn 
the particulars of the horrid crime which his agent had horribly 
executed, yet dreading the very recital to which he gave all 
ears; Pickett — burdened with the consciousness of unprofitable 
guilt, and of its exposure to the dogging bloodhound at his 
heels; and he, the emissary, like a keen hunter, hanging upon 
the flanks of both, pricking them forward when they faltered, 
and now by sarcasm, and now by threats, quelling their spirits 
and commanding all their secrets. Secure of his game, he 
smiled in his security at the feeble efforts which he beheld them 
make, and the futile hopes which he saw they entertained of 
being able to baffle his pursuit, and throw out his unerring nos¬ 
tril from the scent which he had so fortunately followed. The 
struggle was, indeed, no less pitiful than painful, and well might 
the utter villain smile with contempt at the partial character 
which the two brought to bear upon their designs of evil. 
Without virtue, and radically vicious, they were alike deficient 
in that bold and daring insolence which can defy the laws 
which it offends, and by a courage, of however doubtful merit, 
at least elevate its offences above the level of sneaking and in¬ 
sidious vice. His game was that of the cumiing angler, who 
knows that his hook is keenly fixed in the jaws of his prey, 
and who plays with his hopes only to make his fears more 
oppressive, and his compliance the more unreserved and un¬ 
qualified. 

Hurdis was awaiting his companion in the place appointed. 

“What have we here? — who is this?” he exclaimed in sur¬ 
prise, as he beheld the stranger with Pickett. 

“ It is a friend,” replied the latter, with a subdued and dis¬ 
couraging voice. 

“A friend!” said Hurdis. “What friend? — who?—we 
want no friend; why have you brought him ?” 

“You mistake,” said the stranger, boldly. “You do want a 
friend, though you may not think so; and I am the very man 
for you. But go aside with Pickett; he’ll tell you all about it.” 

Having thus spoken, the emissary coolly seated himself upon 
a log, and John Hurdis, completely confounded by his impu¬ 
dence, turned, as he was bidden, for explanation to his agent. 


DOMINO!—THE GAME BLOCKED. 231 

They went aside together, and in a confused and awkward 
manner, Pickett went through the bitter narration, which it al¬ 
most paralyzed the other to hear. 

“Great God! Ben Pickett, what nave you done? We are 
rained — lost for ever!” 

The cold sweat rolled from the forehead of Hurdis, and his 
knees trembled beneath him. His companion tried to console 
him. 

“No; there’s no sort of danger. Hear his story of his busi¬ 
ness, and we know much more against him, than he knows 
against us.” 

“ And what is that to us ? What is it to me that I can prove 
him a villain or a murderer, Ben Pickett? Will it help our de¬ 
fence to prove another as worthy of punishment, as ourselves ? 
Will it give us security ?” 

“We must make the best of it now. It’s too late to grieve 
about it,” said the other. 

“ Ay, we must make the best of it,” said Hurdis, becoming 
suddenly bold, yet speaking in tones that were suppressed to a 
whisper — “ and there is but one way. Hear me, Ben Pickett; 
does this fellow come alone ?” 

“ He does.” 

“ Ha ! that is fortunate; then we have him. His companions 
are—where, did you say?” 

“All about—on the high roads—everywhere—from Au¬ 
gusta to Montgomery, to Mobile, to Tuscaloosa—from the 
Muscle Shoals to Jackson—from Tuscaloosa to Chochuma. 
Everywhere, according to his account of it.” 

“Which is probably exaggerated. They may be every¬ 
where, but they certainly are not here — not in this neighbor¬ 
hood.” 

“We don’t know that, ’squire. God! there’s no telling. 
To think that the fellow should track me so, makes me afraid 
of everything.” 

“You were careless, Pickett—frightened, perhaps—” 

“ No, I wasn’t. I was just as cool as I wished to be, and 
I cleared every step in the road afore I jumped it.” 

“ It needs not to talk of this. We must be more careful in 
future. We must match his cunning with greater cunning, >r 


232 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


we are undone for ever. We are in his power, ai d who knows 
that he is one of a gang such as you describe ? Who knows 
that he is not an officer of justice — one who suspects us, and is 
come to find out our secrets ?” 

“ No, no, ’squire; how should he be able to tell me all that 
he did ? How should he know that I shot Dick Hurdis from 
the hill that hangs over the road V 9 

“ You remember you told me that yourself, Ben Pickett; and 
you say he overheard our conversation V 9 cried Hurdis, eagerly. 

“ Yes, ’squire ; but how should he know that I hid my nag in 
a thicket of poplars?—how should he be able to tell me the 
very sort of stump I fastened him to ?” 

“ And did he do that, Ben V 9 

“That he did — every bit of it. No, no, ’squire, he saw all 
that he says he saw, or he got it from somebody that did see 
it.” 

“ Great heavens ! what are we to do ?” exclaimed Hurdis, as 
he folded his hands together, and looked with eyes of supplica¬ 
tion upward. But his answer and the counsel which it con 
veyed, came from an entirely opposite region. 

“ Do ! well that’s the question,” replied Pickett, “ and I don’t 
know what to tell you, ’squire.” 

“We must do something — we can not remain thus at the 
mercy of this fellow ! The thought is horrible ! The rope is 
round our necks, Ben, and he has the end in his hands!” 

“ It’s too true.” 

“ Hear me!” said Hurdis in a whisper, and drawing his com¬ 
panion still farther from the spot where the emissary had been 
left in waiting — “there is but one way. He comes alone. 
We must silence him. You must do it, Ben.” 

“Do what, ’squire?” 

“ Do what!” exclaimed the other impatiently, though still in 
a whisper. “ Would you have me utter every word ? Do with 
him as you have done with Dick Hurdis!” 

“ I’ve thought of that, ’squire, but—” 

“ But what ?” 

“ There’s a mighty risk.” 

“ There’s risk in everything. But there’s no risk greater 
than that of being at the mercy of such a bloodhound !” 


233 


DOMINO!'—THE GAME BLOCKED. 

“That’s true enough, ’squire; hut lie’s too much for me sin 
gle-handed. You must help me.” 

“ What’s the need ? You don’t think to do it now V de¬ 
manded Hurdis, in some alarm. 

“ If it’s to be done at all, why not now ? The sooner, the 
better, ’squire. This is the very time. He has poked his nose 
into our pot, and he can’t complain, if he gets it scorched To¬ 
gether, we could put it to him, so that there could be no mis¬ 
take.” 

But this counsel did not suit the less courageous nature of 
John Hurdis. 

“No, Ben, that would be a risk, indeed. We might tumble 
him, but a chance shot, from a desperate man, might also tum¬ 
ble one or both of us.” 

“ That’s true.” 

“We must think of something else — some safer course, which 
will be equally certain. He sleeps at your house.” 

“ Yes,” said the other quickly ; “ but I will do nothing of that 
sort, within smell of Betsy. It’s bad enough to draw blood on 
the high road, but it must not run on one’s own hearth.” 

“ Pshaw ! where’s the difference ? Murder is murder wher¬ 
ever it is done!” 

“ That’s true, ’squire; but there’s a feeling in it, that makes 
the difference. Besides, I won’t have the old woman worried 
with any of this business. I’ve kept everything of this sort 
from her that I could; and the thing that I most hated Dick 
Hurdis for, was his making such a blaze of that whipping busi¬ 
ness, as to bring it to her sight. There’s Jane, too. No, 
’squire, my wife and child must not know all the dirty matters 
that stick to my fingers.” 

“ Well, as yon please, on that score. But something must 
be done. You must fix a trap for him. When does he leave 
you V 

“ There’s no knowing. He wants to fix you as he’s fixed me; 
to make us both members of his clan — Mystic Brotherhood— 
as he calls it; and when that’s done, I suppose, he’ll be off.” 

“ But why should he desire this 1 What motive can he have 
in it ? Why a society so extensive ?” 

“ There’s no telling; only you’ll have to ooti«ent ” 


234 


RTCHARD HURDTS. 


“ What! to this accursed brotherhood ? Never !” 

“ How can you help it, ’squire ? If you don’t, he 11 expose 
you ! He swears to hang you, if you do not!” 

“ But he can not! How can he prove his charge ? Besides, 
I struck no blow—^1 never left my home !” 

“ You forget, ’squire; he heard our talk together.” 

But who’ll believe him, Ben ? You can swear him down 
that you never had such a conversation.” 

“ No ! I dare not; for then he’d prove me to be the man that 
shot the shot. We must submit, ’squire, I’m afraid, or he’d con¬ 
vict us both ; and, to save myself, I’d swear against you ! I’d 
have to do it, ’squire!” 

This declaration completed the misery of Hurdis, as it showed 
him how insecure was the tenure, by which the slaves of vice 
are held together. The bitterness of fear—the very worst bit¬ 
terness of human passion — was in his heart, in all its force and 
fulness, and he had to drink deeper draughts of its humiliating 
waters even than this. 

“ What! Ben Pickett, can it be that you would give evi¬ 
dence against me, after all I have done for you ? You do not 
tell me so ?” 

“ To save life only, ’squire ! To save life only—for no other 
necessity. But life is sweet, ’squire—too sweet for us to stand 
on any friendship, when we can save it by giving everything 
up beside. It wouldn’t be at the first jump neither, squire, 
that I would let out the secrets of an old friend. It is only 
when I see there’s no other hope to save myself, and, then, I 
should be mighty sorry.” 

“ Sorry ?” exclaimed Hurdis, bitterly. “ Thus it is,” he 
thought, “ to use base instruments for unworthy ends. The 
slave becomes the arbiter—the master—and to silence and 
to subdue our fears, we add to our secret consciousness of 
shame.” 

In anxiousness, but without expression, he mused thus with 
his own thoughts. 

“ Well, Ben, since it can be no better,” he spoke to his com¬ 
panion, “ we must even hold together, and do as well as we can 
to work ourselves out of this difficulty. You are resolved to do 
nothing with the fellow at your own house ?” 


DOMINO!—THE GAME BLOCKED. 235 

Pickett replied in words and a tone, which made his nega¬ 
tive conclusive. 

“We must see his hand, then, and know the game he intends 
to play,” continued Hurdis. “ You are agreed that we must 
get him out of the way for our own safety. To say when and 
how is all the difficulty. Am I right ?” 

“ That’s it, ’squire; though, somehow, if we could clinch 
him now, it seems to me it would he better than leaving it over 
for another day.” 

“ That’s not to he thought on, Ben. It’s too great a risk.” 

“ I don’t know, ’squire. I could give him a dig while you’re 
talking with him; and if, when I made the motion, you could 
take him by the throat, or only dash your hat in his face to 
confuse him, I think it might be done easily enough.” 

Pickett showed his bowie-knife as he spoke, which he had 
carefully hidden in his bosom, unperceived by his guest, before 
he went abroad. But this plan, though, perhaps, the best, met 
with no encouragement from his more politic, or, to speak 
plainly, more timid companion. He shook his head, and the 
voice of the emissary at a little distance, was heard, as he sang 
some rude ditty to cheer the solitude of his situation, or per¬ 
haps to notify the twain that he was becoming impatient. 

“ Hark ! he approaches us,” said Hurdis. “ Let us say no 
more now. Enough that we understand each other. We must 
watch his game, in order to determine upon our own; and, 
though, I would not we should do anything to-night; yet, what 
we do, must not only be done without risk, but must be done 
quickly. Let us go to him now.” 


236 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE SLAVERY OF GUILT. 

“Your oaths are past, and now subscribe your name, 

That his own hand, may strike his honor down, 

That violates the smallest branch herein.” 

Love's Labor's Lost. 

“Unto bad causes, swear 
Such creatures as men doubt.”— Julius Ccesar. 

The emissary had awaited the end of their long conference 
with exemplary patience. 

“ I could have told you all in fewer words,’’ he said bluntly 
to John Hurdis the moment they came in sight. “ The story 
is soon told by one who is accustomed to it. I am compelled 
to talk it over to so many, that I go through it now almost as a 
matter of memory, with a certain set of words which I seldom 
have occasion to change. I trust that my brother, here, has 
done no discredit to my skill, by halving it in repeating.” 

“ I fear not,” replied Hurdis. “ He has certainly told enough 
to startle one less confidently assured in his own innocence, 
than myself. He has unfolded a strange history in my ears. 
Can it be true ?” 

“ As gospel!” 

“ And you really have the large number of persons leagued 
together which he mentions ?” 

“ Full fifteen hundred.” 

“ And for such purposes ?” 

“Ay!” 

“ And what is your object here ? What do you seek from us ?” 

“To increase the number. We seek friends.” 

“ Wherefore ? Why should you increase your number, when 
such an increase must only diminish your resources?” 


THE SLAVERY OF GUILT. 


237 


“ I don’t know that such will be its effect, and it increases 
our power. We gain in strength, when we gain in number.” 

“ But why desire an increase of strength, when even now 
you have enough for all your purposes V* 

“Indeed! but who shall know — who declare—our pur¬ 
poses ? I, even I, know nothing of them all. I may suspect — 
I may conjecture — but I know them not. They are kept from 
us till the proper moment.” 

“ Indeed — who should then if you do not ? Who keeps them 
from you V* 

“ The grand council. They determine for us, and we execute.” 

“ Who are they V* 

“ That must be a secret from you, yet. You shall know it, 
and all our secrets, when you shall have taken your several de¬ 
grees in our brotherhood.” 

“I will take none!” said Hurdis, with more emphasis than 
resolution. 

“ You do not say it!” was the cool reply of the emissary. 
“ You dare not.” 

“ How ! not dare V 

“ It’s as much as your life is worth.” 

“ You speak boldly.” 

“ Because I am confident of strength, my brother,” replied 
the emissary. “You will speak boldly too — more boldly than 
now — when you become one of us. You will feel your own 
strength, when you know ours. When you feel as I do, that 
there are friends for ever nigh, and watchful of your safety 
making your enemies theirs; guarding your footsteps; fighting 
your battles; making a common cause of your interests, and 
standing elbow to elbow with you in all your dangers. Where¬ 
fore should I be bold enough to seek you here—two of you, 
both strong men—both, most probably armed — I, alone, hav¬ 
ing strength of person, not greater, perhaps, than either of you, 
and, possibly, not so well armed—but that I feel myself thus 
mighty in my connections ? I know they have taken my foot¬ 
steps — they know where I am at all seasons, as I know where 
to find others of our brotherhood, and if I could not call them 
at a given moment, to save me from a sudden blow, I am at 
least certain that they know where, and when to avenge me. 


238 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


But for this, brothers, both, I should not have ventuied my nose 
into your very den, as I may call it, telling you of your tricks 
upon travellers, and spurring you into our ranks.” 

The audacious development of the emissary absolutely con¬ 
founded the two criminals, before whom he stood. They look¬ 
ed at one another vacantly, without answer, and the emissary 
smiled to see in the ghastly starlight, their no less ghastly 
countenances. He put his hand upon the arm of Hurdis who 
stood next to him. 

“ I see you are troubled, brother; but what reason have you 
to fear ? The worst is over. Your secret is known to friends 
— to those only who can and will serve you.” 

“Friends! friends! God help me, what sort of friends!” 
was the bitter speech of Hurdis, as he listened to this humilia¬ 
ting sort of consolation. With increasing bitterness he contin¬ 
ued. “ And what do our friends want of me ? what shall I do 
for them — what give them 1 Their friendship must be paid 
for, I suppose. You want money ?” 

“We do — but none of yours.” 

“ And why not mine as well as others. Is it not quite as 
good V 9 

“ Quite, but not enough of it perhaps. But we never take 
from our friends — from those whom we are resolved to have 
in our brotherhood. You might give us money upon compul 
sion, but it would be scarce worth our while, to extort that, 
when-your co-operation is necessary to our other purposes, and 
must result in getting us a great deal more.” 

“ I must know how — I must know your other purposes, be¬ 
fore I consent to unite with you. I will not league with those 
who are common robbers.” 

“ Common robbers, brother,” cried the emissary, with a con¬ 
temptuous sneer, “ are not, perhaps, such noble people as com¬ 
mon murderers, but, I take it, they are quite as virtuous. But 
we are not common robbers, my brother; far from it. You do 
great injustice to the Mystic Brotherhood. Know from me that 
we are simply seekers of justice; and we only differ from all 
others having the same object, in the means which we take to 
bring it about. We are those who redress the wrongs and inju 
ries of fortune, who protect the poor from the oppressor, who 


THE SLAVERY OF GUILT. 


239 


subdue the insolent, and humble the presumptuoas and vain. 
Perhaps we are, in truth, the most moral community under the 
sun; since our policy keeps us from harming the poor, and, if 
we wrong anybody, it is only those who do. We take life but 
seldom, and then only with the countenance of our social laws, 
and by the will of the majority, except in individual cases, when 
the fundamental law of self-protection makes the exception to 
other laws which are specified. Does your courthouse in Ma¬ 
rengo do better than that—more wisely, more justly ? I know 
to the contrary, my brother, and so do you.” 

“ But we are content with our laws,” said Hurdis. 

“Ah, indeed ! are you willing to be tried by them ? Shall I 
go to the attorney, and tell him what I know ? shall I point to 
your agent beside you, and say he shot down a tall fellow with¬ 
out any notice, and would have robbed him of his money if he 
could, and all on your account ?” 

“You could not say that!” said Hurdis in trembling haste, 
“ his robbery was not our object.” 

“ His death was.” 

“Ay, but he was an enemy — a hateful, malignant c *emy— 
one who trampled on his elder and his brother—” 

“Was he your brother?” exclaimed the emissary, starting 
back at the words, and looking upon the criminal in undisguised 
astonishment. 

The silence of Hurdis answered the question sufficiently. 

“Your own brother — the child of the same mothei ! Well, 
it must have been a cruel wrong that he did to you.” 

“ It was!” stammered out Hurdis in reply. 

“It must have been,” said the other — “it must have been. 
I would take a great deal from a brother, if I had one, before 
I’d shoot him; and then, I tell you, if ’twas necessary to be 
done, my own hands should do it. I wouldn’t send another 
man on the business. But, I’ve nothing to do with that. All 
that I’ve got to say is, that you’re just the sort of man we want 
You must be one of us, swear to stand by us, help us, and coun¬ 
sel with us, and in all respects obey the grand council, and be 
faithful.” 

“ Anything but that. Tel 1 me, my good fellow, is there nv 
alternative? Will not monej' answer? — you shall have it.” 


240 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


“ Money ! why, what can you give, that we might not take I 
What are you worth, that you talk so freely of money? We 
can take your life and money too. You only live by our indul¬ 
gence. And why do we indulge you ? Not because of any 
affection that we bear you, nor because of any admiration which 
we entertain of your abilities and valor, but simply because we 
lack assistants, here and there, throughout the whole South¬ 
west, in order to facilitate the progress of certain great events 
which we have in preparation. But for this, we should com¬ 
pound with you, and take a portion of your wealth, in lieu of 
your life, which you have forfeited. This is what we do daily. 
Whenever we detect a criminal—a friend, as it were, ready 
made to our hands—we do not expose, but guard, his secret; 
and when he becomes one of us, his secret becomes ours, which 
it is then no less our policy than principle to preserve. No, 
no, my brother — we want you, not your money. Do you keep 
your money, but we will keep you.” 

“Great God !” muttered the miserable wretch, in self-rebuke, 
“into what a pit have I fallen! Better die—better perish at 
once, than submit to such a bondage as this.” 

“As you please, my friend; but to one or the other you must 
submit. You have heard my terms : you must decide quickly. 
I have not much time to waste — I have other members to se¬ 
cure for the confederacy, and must leave you in a day or so.” 

“ What am I to do ? what is it you require ?” 

“Your oath — your solemn oath to do what I shall enjoin 
upon you now, and whatever else may at times be enjoined 
upon you by the grand council.” 

“ What may that be? what sort of duties do they enjoin?” 

“ I can not answer you that. Our duties are various, and are 
accommodated to the several capacities and conditions of our 
members. You, for example, are a man of substance and family. 
From you the tasks exacted would seldom be of an arduous 
character. You will, perhaps, be required to furnish monthly 
reports of the conduct,, wealth, principles, and pursuits, of your 
neighbors, particularly the most wealthy, active, and intelligent. 
It is the most important branch of our study to know all those 
who are able to serve or to annoy us. You must also commu¬ 
nicate to us the names of all who intend emigrating from you* 


THE SLAVERY OF GUILT. 


211 


parts; find out and let us know their destination, the route they 
take, the amount of money they have with them, their arms, 
and resolution. I will give you an address which will enable 
you to communicate these things.” 

The enumeration of these degrading offices filled the measure 
of John Hurdis’s humiliation. A sense of the most shameful 
servitude vexed his soul, and he absolutely moaned aloud, as in 
the extremity of his despair he demanded — 

“ May there be more than this V* 

“ Hardly. You will, perhaps, be required to meet the broth¬ 
erhood before long, in order to learn what further duties they 
may impose.” 

•‘Meet them!—where — where do they meet?” 

“Everywhere—but where is not to be said at this time. 
You will be warned in season by one of our messengers, and 
possibly by myself, who will show you the sign, and whom you 
must follow. Let me show you the sign now, and administer 
the osth.” 

Tne victim submitted, as Pickett had already done, and the 
bonds of iniquity were sealed and signed between them. John 
Hurdis began to feel that there was no slavery so accursed, no 
tyranny so unscrupulous, no fate so awful, as that of guilt. He 
almost began to steel himself with the conviction that it would 
be an easier matter for him to give himself up at once to the 
executioner of the laws. With a feeling almost akin to despair, 
he beheld the cool emissary take out his pocket-book, and in 
the uncertain light of the night record their names—nay, actu¬ 
ally tax both himself and Pickett for the right orthography in 
doing so—with all the exemplary and courtly nicety of c:ie 
“learned in the law.” 


n 


RICHARD HURDJ9. 


i.12 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

DESPERATE MEASURES. 

-“ It must be done: 

There is no timely season in delay, 

When life is waiting. I must take the sword, 

Though my soul trembles. Would it were not so!” 

Conspirator. 

Ths conference was over. The emissary did not seem wil¬ 
ling to waste more words than were absolutely necessary. He 
was a man of business. But Hurdis, to whom the conference 
bad been so terrible, be was disposed to linger. 

“ I must speak with you, Ben Pickett, before you go,” said 
be hoarsely to bis colleague. The emissary beard the words, 
and went aside, saying as be did so, with a good-humored smile 
of indifference upon bis countenance— 

“ What! you would not that I should bear, though you know 
we are now of the same family. You will grow wiser one day.” 

“ It’s nothing,” said Hurdis, “ a small matter- - a mere tr’fle,” 
and his tones faltered in the utterance of the lie 

“ It’s of no account,” said the emissary, “ I do not care to 
kno*v it;” and, whistling as he went, he put aside the bushes 
which surrounded cne group, and made his way toward the 
road. 

“Ben Pickett,” said Hurdis, when the emissary had got out 
of hearing, “ I can not bear this dreadful bondage; it will kill 
me if I suffer it a week. We must break from it; we must put 
an end to it in some way or other. I can not stoop to do tke 
dirty business of this confederacy—tlese grand rascals—and 
what is our security 7 This scoundrel, or any one of the pack, 
may expose us at any moment, and, after toiling deeper in the 
mire, we shall be taken out of it at the cart’s tail. It is not to 



DESPERATE MEASURES. 


243 


be thought on — I can not bear it. Speak to me. Say, what 
are we to do ?” 

“ Well, ’squire, I can’t say; it’s for you to speak. You know 
best.” 

“Nonsense, Ben Pickett! this is no time for idle compli¬ 
ments. It is you who should know best. You are better taught 
in the tricks of these scoundrels than I am, and can give better 
counsel of what we are to do. Something must be done. Is 

there no easier way to get rid of this fellow than by- you 

know what I mean? I would not that either of us should do 
any more of that business.” 

“ I reckon not, ’squire. There’s only one way to stop a wag¬ 
ging tongue, that I know of; and if you’re willing to lend a 
hand, why, the sooner it’s done the better. The chap stands 
by the end of the broken fence—” 

The constitutional timidity of John Hurdis arrested the sug¬ 
gestion ere it was fully spoken. 

“ That’s too great a risk, Ben; besides, we have not come 
prepared.” 

“ I don’t know, ’squire : I’ve got a knife that’s sharp enough, 
and I reckon you’ve got your pistols. ’Twould be easy enough 
as we walk along beside him. The night’s clear enough to let 
you take good sight upon him—” 

“ But should the pistol miss fire, Ben—” 

“ Why, then, my knife,” was the jirompt reply. 

“ It might do, Ben, if he were not armed also. But you re 
member he told us that he was, and it is but reasonable to think 
that he must be, coming on such a business as this. He must 
not only be armed, but well armed. No, no—it will not do 
just now; and there’s another objection to our doing it here: 
it’s too nigh home. Let him leave us first, Ben, and it’s safest 
in every respect to give him long shot for his passport. That’s 
our plan, Ben — I see no other.” 

“ Just as you say, ’squire—just as you say; but, to tell you the 
truth, I’m almost of the notion that it’s best to come toe-to-toe, 
at the jump: take it now, in the starlight, and have it over. 
It’s a monstrous cold business, now, that watching behind a 
bush with your rifle, till your enemy comes in sight; it’s a cold 
business.” 



244 


RICHARD HURDI8. 


“Yes, it may be, but it’s tbe safest of all, and ..a: safety i« 
now the single object of both of us. That must be the way, 
Ben ; and—” 

“ But who’ll watch for him ? You, I think — there’s no other, 
for, as he sleeps at my house, I can’t leave him, you know, to 
take a stand. You’ll have to do it.” 

The suggestion was an astounding one; and, for a few mo¬ 
ments, Hurdis was puzzled and silent. To become himself a 
principal actor in such a business was no part of his desire. He 
was unprepared, as well by habit as constitution, to engage in 
deeds of violence, where he himself was the chief performer, 
though at no sort of personal risk. Not that he had any moral 
or human scruples in the matter. We have seen enough of him 
already to know the reverse. It was necessary, however, for 
him to say something; and he proposed a course to his confed¬ 
erate which was vacillating and indecisive, and could promise 
not even a probable advantage. He could not muster courage 
enough to recognise the necessity of doing all himself, and look¬ 
ing his task in the face. 

“ Well, but you could let him off, and follow him, as you fol¬ 
lowed Dick Hurdis.” 

“ Yes, if I knew his course so well. But when he leaves the 
neighborhood road, who knows where he’ll strike? All we 
know is, that he goes upward. We are sure of him then before 
he gets to the ‘Crooked branch,’ which is but ten miles off. 
There you could watch for him snugly enough, and be sure of 
him from the opposite hill for a good quarter of an hour. But 
it would be impossible for me to beat round him, so as to get in 
front, before he reaches that point; and, after that, who knows 
where he turns his bridle ?” 

“ Well, Ben, but you must find that out. You can inquire as 
you go, and mark his hoofs.” 

The other shook his head. 

“ I’m dubious about that way, ’squire. If the fellow says 
true, that he has his friends all about him, I may be asking 
about his tracks from one of them, and then all’s dicky with 
both of us. I think, ’squire, there’s only that one way, which 
is the safe one. You’ll have to take the bush at ‘Crooked 
branch,’ and do this business yourself.” 


DESPERATE MEASURES. 245 

“ But I’m not a sure shot with the rifle, Ben; and, to miss, 
were to knock everything in the head.” 

“ Take your double barrel; you’re a good shot with that. 
Put twenty buckshot in each barrel, and give him one after the 
other. He won’t know the difference.” 

“ If I should miss, Ben—” 

“You can’t miss — how can you? The path’s clear—noth¬ 
ing to stop your sight. You're out of his reach ; you’re on the 
hill. You see him coming toward — going round by—you, 
and you see him for two hundred yards on a clear track after 
lie’s passed you. There’s no chance of his getting off, ’squire; 
and—” 

“ Ha! what’s that ?” cried Hurdis, as the sound of a pistol- 
shot aroused all the sleeping echoes of the wood. The voice 
of the emissary followed, and he was heard approaching them 
through the bushes. 

“ Don’t be frightened, brothers; but, believing you to have 
fallen asleep, I th ought to rouse you up, for fear that you’d 
take cold. Are you most done, for I’m getting cold myself?” 

They were taught by this — which the emissary probably de¬ 
sired—that he had fire-arms, and enough, too, to render the 
loss of one load a matter of small consequence. 

“ The fellow’s getting impatient,” said Hurdis, in suppressed 
tones to Pickett. Then, crying aloud, “We will be with you 
directly,” he hurried through the rest of his bloody arrange¬ 
ments for the ensuing day. When they were about to go forth, 
Pickett suddenly stopped his employer. 

“ I had almost forgot, ’squire, but do you know Bill Carring¬ 
ton’s got back already. He gave me a mighty bad scare to¬ 
day, that I ha’n’t got over yet.” 

“How?” demanded Hurdis, with natural alarm. 

“ I saw him going from my house-door. He hadn’t been in 
it, so Betsy swore to me, though I could almost swear I saw him 
come out; and without stopping to say what he wanted, he took 
to the woods, like one more frightened than myself.” 

“ Strange! He hadn’t come home by dinner-time to-day. 
Did you take after him ?” 

“ Yes, after a little while I did; but I was too much scared 
at first to do anything quickly—not that I was so much scared 
by Bill Carrington, as by another that I saw just afore him.” 


m 


RICHARD HURDI3. 


“ Who was that ?” 

“Dick Hurdis.” 

John Hurdis started hack, a ad with jaws distended, and 
cheeks, whose pallid hue denoted the cowardly heart within 
him, almost gasped his words of astonishment. 

“Ha!—you do not say—but—why ask? You had not 
killed him then ! — and yet, if you had wounded him even, how 
could he be there ?” 

“ He was not there,” replied the other, in low and trembling 
accents — “ it was his ghost!” 

“ Pshaw! I believe not in such things,” was the answer of 
Hurdis; but his faltering tones contradicted the confidence of 
his language. “It was your imagination, Ben—nothing else.” 

And, speaking thus, he drew nigher to Pickett, and looked 
cautiously around him. The other, who had faith, had less 
fear than him who had none. 

“Well, I can’t say I don’t believe in the things that I see. 
Call it imagination, or what you will, it gave me a mighty 
scare, ’squire. But, come, sir ; let us go to the man; he is ap¬ 
proaching us again—I hear his whistle.” 

“ A moment,” said Hurdis. Pickett hung back while the 
other hesitated to speak. It required an unusual effort to en¬ 
able him to do so. 

“ I say, Ben, I’m ready to do this matter, but if you could 
contrive any way to take it off my hands, I should like it—” 

“ I don’t see, ’squire, how I can,” said the other. 

“ If a couple of hundred, or even three, Ben—” 

“ I’d like to serve you, ’squire, but—” 

“ Say five, Ben.” 

“ I reckon it’s impossible, ’squire. I see no way; besides, to 
tell you the truth, I’d rather not. When I think that the blood 
on my hands, already, is got for fighting another man’s battles, 
’squire, I’m worse satisfied than ever with what I’ve done, and 
I’m clear for doing no more, hereafter, than is for my own 
safety.” 

“ But this is for our own safety, Ben — we are in the same 
boat.” 

“Not so, ’squire; oir boats are different-—very different. 
You are in a fine large ship with mighty sails—I am in a poor 


DESPERATE MEASURES. 247 

dug-out. If I lose my dug-out, it’s no great matter. But your 
ship, ’squire—if you lose that?” 

“ I lose more than you do, and yet we both lose all we have, 
Ben. You, your life — I, mine! It matters not much which 
of us is the most wealthy, since we both lose everything in 
losing life. Our loss is equal then, and it is your interest, quite 
as much as mine, to put this fellow out of the way.” 

“Well, ’squire, the truth is, I’m tired of scuffling for life. 
I’ve been scuffling for it all my life. I won’t scuffle any more. 
I’ll take the world as I find it. I’ll take my chance with this 
fellow, and run the risk of his blabbing, sooner than squat * 
down behind a bush and blow his brains out.” 

“ And yet you expect me to do it, Ben f” 

“ No, I don’t expect you. You ask me how to put this fel¬ 
low out of your way, and I tell you. I know no other way, 
unless you’ll come to the scratch at once, and have it out with 
him now, while the stars are shining.” 

“ What! just when you’ve heard his pistol too, and know 
that he’s well provided in arms ! That would be madness.” 

“ I know no other way, ’squire,” was the indifferent reply. 

“Ah, Ben, don’t desert me!” was the pitiful appeal of the 
imbecile villain. “ Don’t lly from me at the very first sign of 
danger!” 

“ I don’t, ’squire ! I’m ready to jump now, this minute, into its 
throat, though you know, as well as I do, that it’s full of teeth !” 

“ That we must not do ! We should both perish, perhaps— 
certainly, if my pistol should miss fire !” 

“ But it would be a warm scuffle for it, ’squire; and that’s 
better than waiting in a cold bush.” 

“We must not think of such a plan. It would be folly. The 
first is the best after all—the safest. I must do it, then, my 
self. I will! Why should I fear? All rests on it, and he — 
what is he? The deed were a benefit to society, not less than 
to ourselves.” 

A sudden fit of courage and morality grew at once prominent 
together in the spirit of the dastard. Driven to the necessity, 
he, at length, seemed to embrace it with the resolution of the 
man; and, thus resolved, he went forth to meet the person 
whom, the next day, he had decreed for the sacrifice- 


248 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


CHAPTER XXXVI, 

THE HEART FAILS. 

“ Like dastard curres, that having at abny 
The savage beast einbost in wearie chace, 

Dare not adventure on the stubborn prey, 

Ne byte before, but rome from place to place, 

To get a snatch, when turned is his face.” 

Faery Qi^een. 

The emissary of the mystic confederacy had been well ch * 
sen for the business upon which he came. He discriminated at 
a glance between the characters of John Hurdis and his agent. 
The imbecility of the one had been the chief occasion of his 
vices; the destitution of the other had originated his. A proper 
education, alone, with due reference to their several deficiencies, 
could have saved them; and, under strict guidance and just 
guardianship, they had, doubtlessly, been both good men. 
They were not, however; and the task of the emissary was to 
make the particular deficiencies of each, the agent for securing 
the required degree of influence over them. To Pickett, when 
Hurdis left them, he had that to say, which, though it did not 
entirely answer the intended purpose of securing his hearty co¬ 
operation, had, at least, the effect of confounding him. Though 
the agent of Hurdis could not be immediately changed into an 
enemy, he was effectually prevented from appearing for ever 
after in the attitude of an active friend. The words were few 
which effected this object. 

“ That is a poor creature for whom you risked your life. If 
he dared, he would even now have you risk it again *br him. 
There is no need to risk it for yourself. He would pay you 
well to murder me ! The fool! as if I, only, am in possession 
of his secret—as if I were utterly unguarded in coming down 


THE HEART FAILS. 


249 


into his jaws, or stood in any sort of danger of their closing upon 
me! I’ll tell you what, brother — when you stab or shoot, let 
it be on your own account. If you do it for another, let it he 
for one who is not too great a coward to do it for himself. 
Here’s a wretch would kill his enemy — that’s nothing—if his 
own arm held the weapon ! Has the feeling which makes him 
hate—the malignity which prompts him to revenge—yet lacks 
the very quality which alone can make hate honorable, and 
malignity manly. By the seal of the grand council, if ’twere 
with me, I’d compound with the fellow for his life — take his 
money, as much as he could give—and let him off from the 
confederacy. I despise such sneaks, and would trust them with 
nothing. And yet, they have their uses. To save his own 
throat, he can tell us where others are to be found, and do the 
business of a spy, if he lacks the boldness to take the weapon 
of the soldier. The scoundrel, too, to strike his own brother; 
there’s no trusting such a chap, Pickett, and it’s fortunate for 
you that another has him on the skirts, as well as yourself. If 
ever this business had come out, you would have suffered all; 
he’d have made you the scapegoat, and would have lacked the 
will, as well as the courage, to have helped you, by a proper 
effort, out of the halter. He is planning something now — I 
know it — something against me; but he must be a keener 
hunter of blood than I think him, to find me napping. By 
mid-day to-morrow, I’ll put another hound upon bin track, so 
that he shall take no step without the council knowing it.” 

Thus speaking, the emissary led the way back to the hovel 
of Pickett, with a manner of the utmost unconcern. The latter 
was too much bewildered by what he heard—'by his own pecu¬ 
liar situation, and the position in which his former coadjutor 
was likely to be placed—to think of anything calmly, or to 
make any answer. He began, with that easy pliability to vice 
and its suggestions, -which had always marked his character, to 
feel that there was no need for him to struggle against a power 
that almost seemed like a fate ; and, if he had any reflections at 
all, they were those of one, who, buffeting much with the world’s 
troubles, had, at last, learned to make something of the worst of 
them. His mind began to address itself to the advantages which 
might result from this new association, and. it was not an emis 
‘ -]!* 


250 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


sary, so faithful to his trust as the one before us, who would 
suffer these to go unmustered into notice. Before Pickett slept 
that night, he had come to the conclusion that he might as well 
take his share in the business of the mystic confederacy, which 
promised so magnificently, and paid so well. 

But, meanwhile, what of John Hurdis? What were his 
thoughts — his dreams-—that night? Anything but pleasant 
and promising. The hopes of Pickett, springing from his pov¬ 
erty and destitution, were nothing to him. He was rich — a 
man of family and substance. Standing fair in the world’s 
esteem — seeking the regards and the aflections of the virtuous 
and the beautiful — what were his reflections in the position in 
which he now found himself? Ills felony brought home to his 
doors, and only withheld from public exposure — at the mercy 
of a band of professed felons—and then, only, by his timely 
compliance with their laws and exactions—by his becoming 
one with them — forced into their crimes—forced into all 
their thousand responsibilities. What a mesh of dangers gath¬ 
ered about him! What a fecund crime was that which he had 
committe d! The teeth of his malignity were already sprout¬ 
ing from the ground, and under his own feet. Well might he 
tremble at every step he was about to take, and bitterly curse 
the folly, not less than the wickedness, of the deed which he 
had commissioned Pickett to perform. And Pickett, too, had 
deserted him — that was a blow not less severe than the rest. 
Could he have thrust upon the hands of his agent the other 
deed yet to be done, he had been comparatively easy, uot so 
much because of the service itself, but because he would not 
then have been taught so terribly to feel the awful solitude of 
crime. The desertion of the confederate is, perhaps, the first- 
felt warning which a just fate despatches to the vicious. 

“ Pool! miserable fool that I was!” raved the miserable Hur- 
dis, when he found himself alone. “ Where am I ? What have 
I done ? Where do I stand ? The earth opens before me! 
Would it hide me? I have labored wildly, and without profit. 
I am no nearer to Mary Easterby than ever—nay, further off 
than ever! and the blood of a brother, shed that I might clear 
the way to her, is upon my hands in vain! She rejects me, 
and I have gained nothing but misery and danger. I am at the 


THE HEART FAILS. 


251 


mercy of the worst—the most desperate of mankind — with no 
ties to bind them in my service and to secrecy! The very 
wealth, which I believed capable to do everything, rejected at 
my hands ! There is but one hope — but one chance for free¬ 
dom ! It must be done, and — double misery ! — my hand alone 
must do it! I must not shrink — I must not falter now! On 
the word of this desperado my life hangs! I must risk life that 
he should not speak that word! He must be silenced ! Bet¬ 
ter that I should <1*2 .no now, than wait till the sheriff knocks at 
the door ! It can not be worse — it may save all!” 

His terror did not deprive him of his cautions, nor operate 
to defeat his deliberate thoughts upon the course which he re¬ 
solved to take. On the contrary, it rather contributed to in¬ 
crease his acuteness, and make his caution more deliberate than 
ever. Nature, which denied him courage, seemed to have pro¬ 
vided him, in his strait, with a double share of cunning; and one 
little incident will sufficiently serve to show his own providence 
in making his arrangements. He had to take his gun from his 
chamber, after he had carefully loaded both barrels with buck¬ 
shot, and, lest he might be met while descending the stairs, by 
any of the family or servants, he lowered it from his window by 
means of a string — thus obviating any danger of being seen 
armed at an unusual hour of the night. Before the day had 
dawned, he had made his way to the place designed for his con¬ 
cealment ; and with the patience, if not the indifference, of the 
professed outlaw, he waited for the approach of one. 

He had to wait for some hours, for Pickett’s hospitality 
toward his new associate, would not suffer him to depart till 
after breakfast. The same consideration was not sufficient, 
however, to induce the former to acquaint the emissary with 
the ambush which he well-knew had been set for him. His 
regards had not yet been warmed to such a degree. His policy 
may be comprised in a few words. 

“ If,” thought he, “John Hurdis kills him, well and good— 
I’ve nothing to do with it — I can lose nothing by it, but will 
most probably escape from a connection, which is decidedly 
dangerous. But whetner I escape from the connection or not, 
at least I am safe from any charges of having done this deed ; 
T am certainly untroubled with the consciousness of it. Should 


252 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


he not kill him, still well and good—we stand where we are 
I am neither worse nor better. The confederacy, if it has its 
dangers, has its rewards also — and what am I, and what are my 
prospects in the world, that I should heed the former, when the 
latter are to me, so important a consideration. Live or die, my 
brother”—here he adopted the affectionate language of the 
emissary—“live or die, my brother, it’s all one to me.” 

And with these thoughts, though unexpressed, he sent the 
emissary forward on his path of danger. As was inevitable, 
he took the road upward according to the opinion of Pickett, 
and, it may be added, his course was directly over the ground 
which he had already travelled. The distance was small, 
however, from the house of Pickett, to the spot where Hurdis 
awaited him; and the fellow took no long time in approaching 
it. Meanwhile, what were the emotions of the felonious watcher. 
We may imagine — I can not describe them. Life and death 
depended upon his resolve — so he thought, at least — yet was 
he still irresolute. He had chosen, with the judgment of one 
experienced in such matters, the very spot which, for all others 
afforded him the best opportunity of putting his design in exe¬ 
cution. Approaching or departing from him, his victim was at 
his mercy for a full hundred yards on eitner hand. Tho bushes 
around effectually concealed him—his aim was unobstructed — 
the path was not often travelled — not uable to frequent inter¬ 
ruption— the day was dark — there wsr mt a breath stirring. 
Yet the hand of the assassin trembled, and the tremor at his 
heart was even greater than that of his hand. Nature had not 
designed him for a bold villain. He might have made a cun¬ 
ning shopkeeper, and succeeded, perhaps, in doing a far better 
business, though not a more moral one, in vending bad wares, 
and spurious money, than by crying, “ stand” to a true man. 
His nerves were not of the iron order, and painfully, indeed, 
was he made conscious of this defect, as he beheld hi.? enemy 
approach. No opportunity could have been better. Tno road 
by the branch, above which he lay in waiting, was almost under 
him; and for a good three minutes, the movement of the travel¬ 
ler was in a direct line with his first appearance. Hurdis got 
his gun in readiness, and when the victim camo within its reach, 
he raised it to his shoulder. But it sank again a moment after, 


THE HEART FAILS. 


Ihe muzzle veered to and fro, as a leaf in the wind. He could 
not bring the sight to rest upon the traveller. Keen was the 
anguish which he felt when he brought it down to the earth 
and it was in desperate resolve that he again lifted it. 

“It must be done,” he said to himself—“there is no hope 
else. My life or his—shall I hesitate' I must do it — I can 
not miss him now.” 

Again the instrument of death was uplifted in his unwilling 
hands, and this time he rested it upon a limb of the tree, which 
rose directly before his person. 

“ I have him now. It is but fifty yards. There he is besido 
the poplar! Ha! what is this—where is he—I can not see 
him — a mist is before my eyes.” 

A mist had indeed, overspread his sight. His straining eyes 
were full of water, and he drew back from the tube, and looked 
over it upon the road. Still, his enemy was there. Why had 
he not seen him before 1 He would have resumed his aim, but 
just then he saw the eyes of the emissary turned upward upon 
the very spot where he stood. Had he been seen through the 
bushes ? The doubt was a palsying one, and he shrunk back 
in terror, and listened with a beating heart that shook in liis 
very throat, to hear the steps of the enemy in pursuit of him 
up the hill. But he heard nothing and was emboldened to look 
again. He had lost one chance. The emissary had rounded 
the branch, and was now upon the other end of the trace and 
going from him. But his back was now turned to the assassin, 
and his base spirit derived strength from this circumstance. He 
felt that he could not have drawn a trigger upon his foe, while 
he looked upon his face. He now did not doubt of his being 
able to execute the deed. His arms were rigid—he felt that 
he was resolved. Tnere was not the slightest quiver in limb 
or pulse; and with the confidence of assured strength, and a 
tried courage, he once more lifted the weapon. Never did man 
take better aim upon his foe. The entire back of the slow 
moving stranger was toward him. The distance was small, for, 
in rounding the branch, the traveller had approached, rather 
than receded from, the point where the murderer lay in waiting. 
Cautiously, but firmly, did he cock the weapon. The slight 
click upon his own ears, was startling, and before he could 


254 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


recover from the start whi?h it had occasioned him, and while 
he was about to throw his eyes along Che barrel, liis marrowles'J 
purpose was again defeated, by one of the simplest incidents in 
the world. A flock of partridges, startled by the tread of the 
horse, flew up from the road-side, at the very feet of the traveller. 
The moment had passed. The victim was out of reach before 
his wretched enemy could recover his resolution. Desperate 
and wild, John Hurdis rushed out of his covert, and half-way 
down the hill. He would have cried aloud to the retreating 
emissary. He would have defied him to an equal, mortal strug¬ 
gle. But the soul was wanting, if not the will. The sound 
died away in his husky throat. The voice stuck—the tongue 
was palsied. The imbecile dropped his weapon, and sinking 
down upon the grass beside it, thrust his fingers into the earth, 
and moaned aloud. It is a dreadful misery to feel that we can 
confide in no friend — that we can trust no neighbor; but this 
sorrow is nothing to that last humiliating conviction, which tells 
us that we can not trust ourselves. That our muscles will fail 
us in the trying moment — that, when we most need resolution, 
we shall find none within our hearts. That our nerves shall be 
unstrung when their tension is our safety — that our tongue 
shall refuse its office, when its challenge is necessary to warm 
our own hearts, and alarm those of our enemies. Conscious 
imbecility next to conscious guilt, is the most crushing of all 
mental maladies. To look upon that poor, base criminal now, 
as he lies upon the grass—his fingers stuck into the sod and 
fixed there — his jaws wide, and the frothing tongue lolling out 
and motionless—big drops upon his forehead—bigger drops in 
his red and glassy eyes — his hair soaked by the sweat of his 
mental agony, and all his limbs without life — and we should 
no longer hate, but pity—we should almost forget his crime in 
the paralyzing punishment which followed it. But this was 
not the limit of his afflictions, though, to the noble mind, it 
must appear the worst. There were yet other terrors in store 
for him. He was yet to learn, even in this narrow life, that 
“ the wages of sin is death.” 


NAMELESS TERRORS. 


255 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

NAMELESS TERRORS. 

“Why stand you thus amazed? Methinks your eyes 
Are fixed in meditation; and all here 
Seem like so many senseless statues; 

As if your souls had suffered an eclipse 

Betwixt your judgment and affections .”—Woman Hater. 

Hours elapsed before John Hnrdis arose from the earth upon 
which he had thrown himself, overcome by the mortification of 
his conscious imbecility. When he did arise he was like one 
bewildered. But he went forward. Stunned and staggering, 
he went forward—the stains of the soil upon his face and 
hands — his gun and clothes marked also with the proofs of his 
humiliation. But whither should he go 1 His mind, for a brief 
space, took no heed of this question. He wandered on without 
direction from his thought; but, with an old habit, he wandered 
toward the dwelling of his coadjutor, Pickett. He was par¬ 
tially awakened from his stupor, by the sounds of a voice— 
the merry voice of unheeding childhood. The sounds were 
familiar—they half recalled him to himself—they reminded 
him where he was, while fully impressing upon him his forlorn 
condition. They were those of the idiot girl, and she now 
came bounding toward him with an old feeling of confidence. 
But ere she drew nigh, she remembered the interview with 
John Hurdis, in which her mother unexpectedly became a party 
Without knowing why, she yet well enough understood that her 
mother found fault with her conduct on that occasion, and the 
remembrance served to arrest her forward footsteps. She hung 
back when but a few feet from the criminal; and a faint cry 
escaped her. She shrunk from his altered appearance. There 
is no ’form of idiocy, which brings with it an utter insensibility 


256 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


to wo; and never was wo more terribly depicted upon human 
countenance, than it was then on that of John Hurdis. The in¬ 
voluntary exclamation and spontaneous speech of the girl, taught 
the miserable criminal, who had hitherto regarded his inner 
man only, to give a moment’s consideration to his outer appear¬ 
ance ; and he smiled, with a sick and ghastly smile, to behold 
the clay-stains upon his garments. 

“Oh, Mr. John, what’s the matter—what have you been 
doing to yourself? Look at your clothes. You’ve tumbled in 
the ditch, I reckon.” 

“Yes, Jane, yes; I’ve had a fall, Jane — a bad fall. But 
how do you, Jane ? I haven’t seen you for a very long time.” 

“ ’Most a week, Mr. John; and I’ve been wanting to see you 
too, Mr. John, to tell you all about the strange man and dad; 
and how mother was frightened so. But you’re hurt, Mr. John 
— you’ve got a bad hurt, I’m sure, or you wouldn’t look so.” 

John Hurdis thought only of his hurts of mind, and his moral 
fall, in replying to the idiot in the affirmative — a reply which 
she received in a purely literal sense. She v/ould have run on 
in a strain of childish condolence, but he listened to her impa¬ 
tiently, and, at length, with an air that mortified the child to 
whom he had always looked indulgence only, he interrupted 
her prattle, and bade her go to tlie hovel and send her father 
to him. She prepared to comply, but her steps were slow, and, 
looking back with an expression of mournful dissatisfaction on 
her countenance, awakened Hurdis to a more considerate feel¬ 
ing. Changing his tone of voice, and employing a few kind 
words, she bounded to him with a sudden impulse, caught his 
hand, kissed it, and then, like a nimble deer, bounded away in 
the direction of the hovel. An age seemed to pass away, in 
the mind of the criminal, ere Pickett came in obedience to his 
summons. When he beheld him coming, he retired into the 
wood, to which the other followed him, eagerly asking, as he 
drew nigh — 

“Well, ’squire, how is’t ? — all safe—all done?” 

“Nothing’s done!” was the reply. “All’s lost—all! Oh, 
Pickett! I am the most miserable, the most worthless wretch 
alive. My heart failed me at the very momenta My hand re¬ 
fused its office —mv eves, my limbs — all denied tjjeir aid to 


NAMELESS TERRORS. 


257 


rescue me from this accursed bondage. I knew it would be so 
I feared it. I would that you had done it! I am — pity me» 
Ben Pickett, that I must say the words myself—I am a coward 
— a poor, despicable coward. I can not avenge my own wrong, 
I can not defend my own life. I can not lift my arm, though 
the enemy stands threatening before me. I must only submit 
and die.” 

The look which accompanied these words — the looks of 
mingled frenzy and despair, of feebleness and passion—would 
beggar all attempt at description. The cheeks of the wretched 
imbecile were white — whiter than the marble; his eyes glassy, 
almost glazed with the glaze of death ; his mouth was open, and 
remained so during the greater part of their conference; and a 
stupid stare which he fixed upon his companion while the latter 
spoke in reply, was far from attesting that attention which his 
ear nevertheless gave to his utterance. The inferior yet better- 
nerved villain absolutely pitied, and, after his own humble fash¬ 
ion, endeavored to console him under his afllictions. But words 
are idle to him who has need of deeds which he dares not to 
perform himself, and can not purchase from another. It was a 
bitter mockery to Hurdis, in his situation, to hear the common¬ 
places of hope administered by one whom guilt and ignorance 
alike made hopeless as a teacher of others, as he must have 
been in his own case hopeless. After hearing all that Pickett 
could say, Hurdis was only conscious of increased feebleness. 

“Go home with me, Ben — I feel so weak — I don’t think I 
can find the way myself. I am very weak and wretched. Let 
me take your arm.” 

Pickett complied, and relieving him from the gun, the weight 
of which was oppressive to him under his general mental and 
physical prostration, conducted him through by-paths to his 
home. Ere they reached the avenue, he gave him up the gun; 
and finding that he was unable to confer further, though wil¬ 
ling, upon their mutual situation and necessities, he left him, 
with a cold exhortation to cheer up and make the most of his 
misfortune. The other heard him with little head or heed, and 
in the solitude of his own chamber endeavored to conceal the 
marks of that, misery which he was only now beginning to dis¬ 
cover it was beyond his art to subdue. 


258 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


But, to return to my own progress while these events were 
passing. It will he remembered that, stunned by the murder 
of my friend, I was for three days almost incapable of thought 
or action. I lingered during that time with Colonel Grafton, 
whose own kindness and that of his happy family ministered 
unremittingly to the sorrows which they did not hope to stay. 
After that time, I felt the necessity of action. The stunning 
sensations occasioned by the first blow were now over, and I 
began to look about me and to think. 

I set forward on my way homeward, burdened with the cruel 
story, which I did not know how to relate. Nothing but a pen¬ 
knife and plain gold ring of William Carrington had been left 
untouched by his robbers. They had stripped him of every¬ 
thing in the shape of arms and money. The knife was in a 
vest-pocket, and was probably too insignificant for appropria¬ 
tion* the ring—one given him by Emmeline—was upon a 
little finger, and probably escaped their notice, or was too tight 
for instant removal. These I bore with me back — sad tokens 
of what I could not bring. Ilis horse they had taken in their 
flight from the hovel, and probably sold the next day in the 
Choctaw nation. Mine was preserved to me; as, when William 
fell, and he felt himself freed from all restraint, he naturally 
made his way back to Colonel Grafton’s, where he had been 
well provided for the night before. I had, indeed, lost nothing, 
but that which I could not replace. My money was untouched 
in my saddle-bags, and even that which I had about my person 
had been left undisturbed. It is true I had concealed it in a 
secret pocket of my coat, but they had not even offered at a 
search. The flight of Carrington had too completely occupied 
their minds at first, and the large sum which they found upon 
his person had subsequently too fully answered their expecta¬ 
tions to render it important, in their hurry, that they should 
waste time in examining me. Perhaps, too, they may have re¬ 
garded William as* the purse-bearer for both. Whatever may 
have been the cause of their neglect, I was certainly no loser 
of anything with which I had at first set out. And yet how 
dreadful was the loss which I had to relate ! how could I relate 
it ? how name to the poor girl, looking for her lover, any one 
of the cruel words which must teach her that she looked for 


NAMELESS TERRORS. 


259 


liim in vain ? This was my continual thought as I travelled 
homeward. I had no other. It haunted me with a continual 
questioning, and the difficulty of speech seemed to increase with 
the delay to answer it, and, before I had answered it, I reached 
home. 

The very first person I encountered was John Hurdis. T 
approached him unawares. He was walking from me, and tow¬ 
ard the house. I had dismissed from my bosom all feeling of 
hostility; for, since the murder of William, it seemed to me that 
all my old hates and prejudices were feeble. They were all 
swallowed up and forgotten in that greater sorrow. So com¬ 
pletely had this become the case that, though, at leaving him 
but a week before, I should have only spoken to him in curses, 
I now spoke to him in kindness. My speech seemed to con¬ 
found him, no less than his conduct, on hearing it, confounded 
me. As I have said, he was walking from me in the road lead¬ 
ing up to the avenue. He had nearly reached the entrance, 
and was so completely absorbed in his own thoughts, that the 
head of my horse provoked none of his attention. I called to 
him, and I am sure that my voice could not have been made 
more studiously unoffending. 

“ Well, John, how are you — how are all V ’ 

“John — John!” he exclaimed, turning round, and staring at 
me with a face full of unspeakable agitation. “ Who’s that ? 
what do you mean ? what do you want with me ? ha!” 

“ Why, what’s the matter with you, John ?” I cried ; “ what 
frightens you ?— don’t you know me ?” 

“ Know you ? yes, yes—I know you and his face and move¬ 
ments both indicated a strong disposition on his part to fly from 
me, but that his trembling limbs refused to assist him. 

“ Why do you shrink from me ?” I asked, thinking that all 
his agitation arose from our previous quarrel, and the fear that 
I was seeking some opportunity of personal collision with him. 
“ Why do you shrink from me, John Hurdis ? I am not angry 
w ; th you now; I do not seek to harm you. Be yourself, broth¬ 
er, for God’s sake, and tell me how the old folks are: how’s 
mother?” 

He saw me alight from my horse, which I did at this moment, 
nad approach him, without being able to give me any answer. 


260 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


When, however, I had got alongside of him, he enforced him¬ 
self to speech, but without replying to my question. 

“And what brings you back? How did you — I mean, you 
have come back safely ?” 

“Ay, I am safe,” was my answer; “but, truth to say,brother 
John, you do not seem to know exactly what you mean. What! 
you are still angry about the old business ? but you are wrong. 
It is for me to be angry, if anybody; but I am not angry — I 
have forgiven you. Tell me, then, are the old people well V* 

“ They are !” was his only and brief answer; and I got noth¬ 
ing from him but plain yes and no, while we moved along to¬ 
gether to the house. He was evidently overcome with aston¬ 
ishment and fear. I knew him to be timid ; but, at that time, 
ignorant as I was then of the history which has been already 
related, I found it difficult to account for his imbecility. It was 
easily understood afterward. But even then I looked on him 
with pity, mixed with scorn, as, shrinking and silent, he moved 
along beside me. Guilty or not, I would not have had in my 
bosom such a soul as his for all creation. 


THE BROKEN HEART. 


261 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE BROKEN HEART. 

“Hold! Hold! 

Oh, stop that speedy messenger of death, 

Oh, let him not run down that narrow path, 

Which leads unto thy heart.”— Satiro Mastlx. 

My unexpected return, of course, brought the family together, 
John Hurdis could not well be absent, and he was a pale and 
silent listener to my melancholy narrative. The story was 
soon told, and a dumb horror seized upon all. I saw that he 
was palsied — that he shivered—that a spasmodic emotion had 
fastened upon all his limbs, but, even had he not been guilty, 
such emotion, at such a narrative, would have been natural 
enough. He rose to leave the room, but staggered in such a 
manner that he was forced once more to take his seat. My ac¬ 
count of the murder had confirmed the story of the emissary. 
He had a vain, vague hope before, that the clan — the mystic 
confederacy—was a fable of the stranger, got up for purposes 
yet unexplained, or, if true, that its purposes and power had 
been alike exaggerated. The history of my seizure, and of 
the pursuit of William Carrington, however, was attended with 
so many circumstances of bold atrocity, that he could deceive 
himself no longer as to the strength and audacity of the clan. 
Still, his guilty soul could draw some consolation, even from a 
fate so dreadful. He breathed with more freedom, when he 
found that I unhesitatingly ascribed the murder of my friend to 
the robbers, and had no suspicion in any other quarter. His 
own common sense sufficiently taught him that such a belief 
was the most reasonable and natural to one who did not know 
the truth ; and with a consciousness of increased security, from 
one quarter at least, he did not afflict himself much with the 


262 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


reflection that he had been the murderer c £ one unoffending 
person, and the cruel destroyer of another's dearest hopes. So 
long as he was himself safe, these considerations were of small 
importance. And, yet let us not suppose that they did not 
trouble him. He had not slept in peace from the moment that 
he despatched Pickett on his bloody mission. He was doomed 
never to sleep in peace again—no, nor to wake in peace. 
Forms of threatening followed his footsteps by day, and images 
of terror haunted his dreams by night. He might escape from 
human justice, but he soon felt how idle was any hope to escape 
from that worst presence of all — the constant consciousness of 
crime. 

But I must not forget my own troubles in surveying those of 
John Hurdis. Of his woes I had no thought at this moment. 
My only thought was of that fearful interview with Emmeline. 
What would I not have given could I have escaped it. But 
such wishes were foolish enough. I had undertaken the task, 
regarding it as a solemn duty, as well to the dead as to the 
living, and, sooner or later, the task was to be executed. De¬ 
lay was proof of weakness; and that afternoon 7. set out for the 
house of the poor maiden, widowed ere a wife. During the 
solitary ride, I thought in vain of the words which I should use 
in telling her the story. How should I break its abruptness — 
how soften the severity of the stroke. The more I thought of 
this—as is most usually the case in such matters with most 
persons—the more difficult and impracticable did the labor seem 
and, but for the shame of such a movement, I could have turned 
my bridle, and trusted to a letter to do that, which I felt it im¬ 
possible that my lips should do well. I had seen preachers, 
otherwise sagacioT e enough, undertake to console tie afflicted, 
by trite maxims vhich taught them — strangely enough — to 
forbear grief for he very reason which makes them grieve— 
namely, because their loss is irreparable. “ Your tears are 
vain,” says the bookman. “ Therefore I weep,” replies the 
man. How to avoid such wanton folly was the question with 
me, yet it was a question not so easy to answer. The mind 
runs upon commonplaces in the matter of human consolation, 
and we prate of resignation to the:end of the chapter to those 
who never hear us. This, of comrse, assumes the grief to be 


THE BROKEN HEART. 


263 


sincere. There is a conventional sort of sorrow which is re¬ 
lieved by conventional language; and the heir finds obedience 
to the will of Providence a very natural lesson. But the lovd 
of Emmeline Walker seemed to me a thing all earnestness. I 
had seen enough of her to know that she could freely have 
risked life for William Carrington — to tell her that no risk of 
life could save him now, I felt convinced would almost be at 
the peril of hers. Yet the irksome labor must be taken — the 
risk must be met. I had that sort of pride which always sent 
me forward when the trial appeared a great one; and the very 
extremity of the necessity, awakened in me an intensity of 
feeling, which enabled me to effect my object. And I did ef¬ 
fect it — how, it will be seen hereafter. Enough, that I shared 
deeply in the suffering I was Unavoidably compelled to inflict. 

It was quite dark when I reached her dwelling. My prog¬ 
ress toward it had been slow, yet I felt it too fast for my 
feelings. I entered the house with the desperate haste of one 
who distrusts his own resolution, and leaps forward in order 
that it may not leave him. My task was increased in difficulty 
by the manner in which Emmeline met me. The happy heart, 
confident in its hope, shone out in her kindling eye, and in the 
buoyant tones of her voice. 

“ Ah, Mr. Hurdis, back so soon ! I did not look for you for 
a whole month. What brought you — but why do I ask, when 
I can guess so readily ? Have you seen Mary yet V ’ 

While she spoke, her eyes peered behind me as if seeking 
for another ; and the pleasant and arch smile which accompa¬ 
nied her words, was mingled with a look of fondest expectation 
I could not answer her—I could not look upon her when I be 
held this glance. I went forward to a chair, and sank down 
within it. 

She arose and came hurriedly toward me. 

“What is the matter—are you sick, Mr. Hurdis?” 

And, though approaching me, her eyes reverted to the e-11 
trance as if still seeking another. Involuntarily, I shook my 
head as if in denial. She saw the movement and seemed to 
comprehend it. Quick as lightning, she demanded — 

“You come alone? — Where’s William —where’s Mr. Car¬ 
rington V 1 


RICHARD HURDIS. 




“ He did not come with me, Emmeline. He could not.” 

“Ha! could not—could not! Tell me why he could not 
come, Mr. Hurdis. He is sick! — where did you leave him? 
He is ill, perhaps — dangerously ill. Tell me — speak, Rickard 
Hurdis — your looks frighten me.” 

“They should, Emmeline.” 

I could not then speak more. My face was averte.d from 
her. Trembling with half-suppressed emotion, she hastened to 
confront me. Her voice grew thick and hoarse as she again 
spoke. 

“ You have come for me, Richard. You have come for me 
to go to him. He must be ill, indeed, when he sends for me. 
I will go to him at once—let us set out instantly. Where did 
you leave him ? Is it far ?” 

I availed myself of the assistance which she thus furnished 
me, and replied — 

“Near Tuscaloosa—a two days’journey.” 

“ Then the less time have we to spare, Richard. Let us go 
at once. I fear not to travel by night—I have done it before 
But tell me, Mr. Hurdis, what is his sickness. From what does 
he suffer ?” 

“ An accident — a hurt.” 

“Ha! a hurt—” 

“ A wound!” 

“ God be merciful — a wound—a wound. Out with it, Rich¬ 
ard Hurdis, and tell me all, if you be a man. I am a woman, 
it is true, but I can bear the worst, rather than the doubt 
which apprehends it. How came he by a wound—how was 
he hurt—what accident?” 

“ He was shot!” 

“Shot! shot! By what—by whom? Tell me, Richard, 
dear .Richard — his friend — my friend — tell me not that he is 
hurt dangerously—that he will recover—that there are hopes. 
Tell me, tell me, if you love me and would have me live.” 

I shook my head mournfully. Her hand grasped my arm, 
and her gripe though trembling, was firm as steel. 

“You do not say it—you can not tell me, Richard—that his 
wound is mortal. That William — I can not think it—I dare 
uot, though you may tell me so—that he will die!” 


THE BROKEN HEART. 


26 £ 


“ Be calm, awhile, dear Emmeline, and hear me.” I an¬ 
swered retreatingly, while I took her hand, with which she still 
continued to grasp my arm, in my own. She released her hold 
instantly. 

“ There ! I am calm. I am patient. I listen. Speak now, 
Hichard—fear not for me, but tell me what I must hear, and 
what, if my apprehensions be true, I shall never be better pre¬ 
pared to hear than now. William Carrington is hurt — by an 
accident you say. He sends for me. Well—I will go to him 
— go this instant. But you have not told me that there is hope 
—that he is not dangerously—not mortally hurt. Tell me 
that. It is for that I wait.” 

Wonderful woman! She had recovered her stature—her 
firmness—her voice — all, in a single instant. And never had 
she looked so beautiful as now, when her eyes were shining 
with a fearful light — when doubt and apprehension had im¬ 
parted to their natural fire, an expression of wildness, such as 
the moon shows -when mocked on her march, by clouds, that 
flit over her disk, yet leave no impresssion on its surface — 
when her small and rosy mouth, the lips slightly parted, and 
occasionally quivering, exhibited the emotion, which she was 
only able to subdue by assuming one of a higher character, and 
putting on the aspect of command. Full, finely formed in per¬ 
son, with a carriage in which grace and dignity seemed twins, 
neither taking precedence of the other, but both harmoniously 
co-operating, the one to win, the other to sway; she seemed, 
indeed, intended by nature to command. And she did command. 
Seeing that I hesitated, she repeated her injunction to me to 
proceed; but with a voice and words that evidently proved her 
to have lost some of her most sanguine hopes, by reason of my 
reluctant and hesitating manner. 

“Tell me one thing only—tell me that I am in time to see 
him ! That he will not be utterly lost—that I may again hear 
his voice—that he may hear mine—that I may tell him I come 
to be with him to the last—if need be, to die with him. Say, 
Richard—say, my brother, for he called you his—say that I 
will be in time for this.” 

My answer was spoken almost without my own consciousness, 
and it seemed as instantaneously, to deprive her of all hers. 

V2 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


266. 

“ You will not /” 

With one wild, piercing shriek, she rent the air, while tossing 
her arms above her head, she rushed out of the room and into 
the passage. Then I heard a dead, heavy fall; and, rushing 
after her, I found her prostrate at the foot of the stairs, as 
utterly lifeless as if a cleaving bolt had been driven through 
her heart. 


THE MANIAC. 


W1 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE MANIAC. 

“ What! thou hast fled hi9 side in time of danger, 

That clung to him in fortune! 

Oh! cruel treachery; he had not done thee 

So foul a wrong as this. Away, and leave me.”— The Paragon 

I followed her with all haste and raised her from the floor 
My cries brought her mother to her assistance—a venerable 
and worthy dame, whom years and disease had driven almost 
entirely to her chamber. She received her daughter at my 
hands in an almost lifeless condition. I assisted in bearing the 
poor maiden to her room; and after giving the mother a brief 
account of what had taken place—for the circumstances of the 
scene would admit of no more—I left her for my father’s habi¬ 
tation. I shall not undertake to describe my misery that night. 
The thought, that, in my want of resolution, my haste, my im¬ 
perfect judgment, I had given a death-stroke to the poor heart 
that I had seen so paralyzed in a single instant before my eyes, 
was little less than horrible to me. It was a constant and stalk¬ 
ing terror in my eyes. In my dreams, I beheld the bloody 
body of William Carrington, and the lifeless form of Emmeline 
beside it, stretched out in the same damp, cold bed of death. 
If I awakened, my active fancy represented a thousand similar 
objects—familiar forms lying and gasping in all the agonies of 
dissolution, or crouching in terror, as if beneath some sudden 
belt or blow. In all these visions I never lost sight of the 
living and real scene of misery through which I had so recently 
gone. At first, the smiling, hopeful face of Emmeline rose 
before me; and I could distinguish the devoted 1 jve in the look 
that asked after her betrothed, when her lips refused all ques¬ 
tion. Then rose the wonder why he came not—then the doubt 


2;s 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


— then the fear—the terror next; and, lastly, the appalling 
and tliunder-riving blow, which hurled her to the ground in a 
stupor scarcely less felt and freezing than was that which liad 
stricken down her lover, and from which he could never more 
awake. Was it better that she should awake ? Could the light 
of returning life, be grateful to her eyes ? Impossible ! . The 
heart which had been so suddenly overthrown, was never 
destined to know any other than the consciousness of sorrow. 
There was no light in life for her. The eyes might kindle, and 
the lips might wear a smile, in after days, even as the tree 
which the wanton axe of the woodman has wounded, will some¬ 
times put forth a few sickly buds and imperfect branches. But 
these do not speak for life always. The life of the soul is 
wanting—carried off by untimely sap. The heart is eaten out 
and gone, and when the tree falls, which it does when the night 
is at the stillest, men wonder of Avhat disease it perished. 
The natural world abounds in similitudes for humanity, which 
it is our misfortune, perhaps, too unfrequently to regard. 

The next day, to my surprise, I was sent for, by Emmeline. 
I had not thought it possible she should recover in so short a 
time—she was, it seems, resolved, to hear all the dreadful par¬ 
ticulars of my narrative; and strove, with wonderful energy, to 
listen to them calmly. Her words were subdued almost to a 
whisper, and uttered as if measured by the stopwatch. I could 
see that the tension of her mind was doing her but little good. 
That she was overtasking herself, and exhausting the hoarded 
strength of years, to meet the emergency of a moment. I im¬ 
plored her to wait but a day, before she required the intelli¬ 
gence she wished. I pleaded my own mental suffering in ex¬ 
cuse ; but to this, she simply answered, by touching her head 
with her finger, and smiling in such a sort, as if to rebuke me 
for arrogating to myself a greater degree of feeling and suffer¬ 
ing than was hers. I could not refuse, and yet, I trembled to 
comply with her demand. I shuddered as I thought upon the 
probable—nay, the almost certain—consequences of evil which 
must follow to her life, from the recital. Her features denoted 
a latent war in the mind, which my details, like the spark to 
the combustible, I felt sure, must bring about an explosion no 
less terrible than sudden. Her eyes were bloodshot and dry— 


THE MANIAC. 


269 


without a sign of moisture. Had they been wet, I should have 
been more free to speak. Her cheeks were singularly pale ; 
but in the very centre of her forehead, there was a small spot 
of livid red—an almost purple spot—that seemed like a warn¬ 
ing beacon, fired of a sudden in sign of an approaching danger. 
I took her hand in mine, as I sat down by the couch on which 
she lay, and found it cold and dry. There was little, if any, 
pulse, at that moment. It was not long after, however, when it 
bounded hotly beneath my finger, like a blazing arrow, sent 
suddenly from the bended bow. 

“And now,” she said, “now that I am calm, Richard — I can 
hear all that you have to say—you need not be afraid to speak 
to me now, since the worst is known.” 

“ You have heard, then, from your mother ?” I asked affirm¬ 
atively. 

“Yes, I have heard all—I have heard that he is —” here 
she interrupted the sentence by a sudden pause, which was 
followed by a long parenthesis. “ You will nov/ see how strong 
I have become, when you hear the words that I can calmly 
speak—know then, that you can tell me nothing worse than I 
already know. I know that he is dead, to whom I had given 
myself, and whom—I repeat it to you, Richard, as his friend 
— and whom, as heaven is my witness, I most truly loved.” 

“I believe it — I know it, Emmeline; and he knew it too.” 

“ Hid he 1 —are you sure he knew it V’ she asked, putting her 
hand upon my arm, as she spoke these words in a tone of ap¬ 
pealing softness. “ Ah, Richard, could I know that he felt this 
conviction to the last—could I have been by to have heard him 
avow it—to have laid bare my heart before him—to have lis¬ 
tened to the last words in which he received and returned my 
affections ! Oh, those last words ! those last words ! Let me 
hear them ? What were they ? It is for this I sent for you to 
come. It is those words that I would hear! Tell me, then, 
Richard, and set my heart at rest—give peace to my mind, 
and relieve me from this anxiety ! What said he at the last— 
what said he?” 

“ Will it relieve you] I fear not, Emmeline—I fear it would 
only do you harm to listen to such matters now. You could not 
bear it now.” 


270 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


“Not bear it! Have I not heard all — have I not borne the 
worst? What more can you have to say to distress me? I 
tell you, I know that he is dead ! I know that I shall speak 
to him no more—that I can never hear his voice in answer tc 
mine! For him, I might as well be dumb as he! You see 
now, that I can speak the words which yesterday you could 
not speak! What, then, have you to fear? Nothing—noth¬ 
ing ! Begin then, Richard—begin, my brother, and tell me the 
particulars of this cruel story. It will be a consolation, though 
a sad one, to know the history of the sorrow that afflicts me.” 

“ Sad consolation, indeed, Emmeline, if any, but I will not 
believe that it can be a consolation now. Some time hence, 
when you have learned calmly to look upon your loss, and be¬ 
come reconciled to your privation, I doubt not that you will re¬ 
ceive a melancholy satisfaction from a knowledge of the truth. 
But I do not think that it will benefit you now. On the con¬ 
trary, I fear that it will do you infinite harm. You are not 
well—there is a flushed spot upon your brow which shows 
your blood to be in commotion; to-morrow, perhaps—” 

“No to-morrow, Richard ! all days are alike to me now ! I 
am already in the morrow — the present is not mine — I live in 
the past, or in the future, or I live not at all! Let me, then, 
hear from you now—let me know all at once—now, while the 
cup is at the fullest, let me drink to the bottom, and not take 
successive and hourly draughts of the same bitter potion! I 
must hear it from you now, Richard, without delay or evasion, 
or, I tell you, I can not sleep again! If I do, it will only be 
to dream a thousand things, and conjure up a thousand fancies, 
much more terrible than any you can bring me now ! Come, 
then! why should you fear to tell me, when I already know 
the worst ? I know that he perished by the sudden stroke of 
the murderer, having no time given him for prayer and prepa¬ 
ration ! Can your story tell me worse than this? No, no ! you 
have no words of darker meaning in my ears, than those which 
my own lips have spoken !” 

“ Emmeline, dear Emmiline, let me have time for this. Let 
me put it off for a while. Already the blood is rising impetu¬ 
ously in your veins. Your pulse beneath my finger is shooting 
wildly—” 


THE MANIAC. 


271 


“ I am calm — you mistake, dear Richard—you are no doc¬ 
tor, clearly. I was never more calm—never more composed 
in all my life. My pulse, indeed !” 

The impatient and irritable manner of this speech, was its 
sufficient refutation. I replied— 

“Your will is calm and resolute, Emmeline; I doubt not 
your strength of mind and purpose; but I doubt your com¬ 
mand of nerve, Emmeline, and your blood. You are very fe¬ 
verish.” 

She interrupted me almost petulantly. 

“ You are only too considerate, Richard. Perhaps, had you 
been half so considerate, when a fellow-traveller with the man 
you called your friend, and who certainly was yours, he had not 
perished !” 

“ Emmeline!” 

“Ay! I speak what I think, Richard—what I feel! You 
are a grave physician when with me. You talk sagely and 
shake your head. But with him — with William Carrington! 
—•were you grave, and wise, and considerate'? You persuaded 
him to this journey; you knew that he was hasty and thought¬ 
less ; did you shake your head in warning, and lift your finger 
when you saw him running wide from prudence—from safety?” 

“ Emmeline, my child,” exclaimed the mother, “ you are un¬ 
kind—you do Richard injustice!” 

“ Let him show me that I do him injustice, mother. That is 
what I wish him, and pray him, to do. I do not desire to do 
him injustice.” Her tone and manner, which were almost vio¬ 
lent before, now changed even into softness here; and, turning 
to me, she continued: “ You know I do not wish to do you in¬ 
justice ; but why will you not oblige me ? Why not tell me 
what I claim to know — what I have a right to know?” 

I could see that the blood was mounting in torrents to her 
brain. Her pulse was momently quickening; and the little 
speck of red, so small and unimposing at first, had overspread 
her face, even as the little cloud, that dots the western heavens 
at morning, spreads by noon until it covers with storm and 
thunder the whole bosom of the earth. It was more than ever 
my policy to withhold a narrative so full of details, which, 
though they could unfold no circumstance worse in substance 


272 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


than that which she already knew, were yet almost certain to 
harrow up her feelings by the gradual accumulation of events 
before her imagination, to a pitch almost unendurable. I re¬ 
sorted to every argument, plea, suggestion — everything which 
might move her to forego her wish — at least, for the present. 
But my efforts were unavailing. 

“You entirely mistake me,” she would say, “ I am earnest— 
not excited. My earnestness always shows itself in this man¬ 
lier. I assure you that my blood is quite as temperate as it 
would be under the most ordinary affliction.” 

And this she said in words that were uttered with spasmodic 
effort. Her mother called me aside for a moment. 

“ You will have to tell her,” she said ; “ the very opposition 
to her desire makes her worse. Tell her all, Richard, as she 
demands it, and God send, that it be for the best!” 

Thinking it probable that such might be the case, though 
still reluctant, I waived my objections, and determined to com¬ 
ply. When I resumed my seat by the bedside, and avowed 
this determination, as if to confirm the words of the mother, a 
sudden change came over her. Her respiration, which had 
been impeded and violent before, became easier; and, closing 
her eyes, she leaned back upon the pillow, from which, during 
the greater part of the previous conference, her head had been 
uplifted, and thus prepared herself to listen. It was a strong 
effort which she made to be, or seem, composed, and it was 
only successful for a time. My confidence in it soon began to 
waver, as I found, when fairly in my narrative, that her eyes 

were re-opened, and with a fearful resumption of light_her 

head once more raised from the pillow—and her unconscious 
hand, when I reached that part of my narrative which detailed 
the first assault upon us at the hovel of Webber, suddenly ex 
tended and grasping my arm which lay on the bed beside her 

“ Stop—stop awhile—a moment — I am not ready yet to heai 
you—not yet—not yet!” 

I paused at her direction, and she sank back upon the pillow, 
and closed her eyes with a rigid pressure of her fingers upon 
their lids, as if to shut out from sight some horrible vision. In 
this state she remained for a space of several seconds; and I 
could perceive, when she resumed her attitude of attention, 


THE MANIAC. 


278 


and bade me proceed with my narrative, that though she might 
have succeeded in expelling the phantom from her sight, the 
very effort requisite in doing so, had accelerated the action of 
her blood. I proceeded, however, striving to avoid every word, 
phrase, or unnecessary incident, which might have the effect 
of increasing the vividness of an event, already too terribly im- 
^essive; but with all my caution I could perceive the constant 
flow and gathering of excitement in her brain. Her words be¬ 
came thick, yet more frequent. She started constantly from the 
pillow, to which she as constantly and immediately sank back, 
as if conscious of departing from the tacit pledge which she had 
given me, but which I had never relied on, to be calm and col¬ 
lected while I spoke. At length, when I told of the flight of 
Carrington, of his pursuit by the ruffians, of the long interval, 
in which, bound to the floor, I lay at their mercy, and after 
they had gone, before the arrival of Grafton to my relief; and 
how I looked for my friend in vain among those who rescued 
me; her emotion grew utterly beyond constraint, and she cried 
out aloud, and gasped with such effort between her cries, that I 
dreaded lest suffocation should follow from her fruitless endeav¬ 
ors at speech. But she contrived to speak. 

“ Yes ! yes ! they came—they loosed you—they set you free 
—but what did they for him — what did you, who called your¬ 
self his friend? What did you for him, who was yours? Tell 
me that—that!” 

These were words of madness — certainly there was madness 
in the wild and roving expression of her fire-darting eye. 1 
would even then have paused, if I could; but she would not 
suffer it. Resuming a look of calmness — such a look as mocked 
itself by its inadequacy to effect her object — when she saw me 
hesitate, she begged me to continue. 

“I am calm again, Richard — it was for a moment only. 
Forgive me, I pray you, Richard — forgive me, and go on. 
Let me hear the rest. I will not cry out again.” 

I hastened to close the painful narrative, but she did not heat 
me to the end. She was no longer capable of knowing what she 
did or said ; but leaping from the couch, in defiance of all my 
own and her mother’s efforts—short of absolute violence—to 
restrain her, she strode across the chamber, as if with a leading 

I2 m 


274 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


purpose in view. Then, suddenly turning, she confronted me, 
with a face in which, if a face might ever be said to blaze with 
fire, and yet maintain its natural expression, hers did. She 
gazed on me for a few seconds with all the intensity of an ex¬ 
pression which was neither hate nor anger, but blind ferocity, 
and destructive judgment; and then she spoke, in accents 
which would have been bitter enough to my heart, had I not 
well enough understood the maddening bitterness in hers. 

“And so he was murdered — and you led him on this expe¬ 
dition to be murdered ! You were his friend—and while they 
pursued him for the accursed money—you lay quietly — with¬ 
out effort — having bonds, which a child — a woman — which I 
—weak and feeble as I am — which I would have broken at 
such a time — which you might‘have broken, had you been 
warmed with a proper spirit to help your friend! And he 
thought you a brave man, too—he told me you were so, and I 
believed it—I gave him in charge to you, and you suffered 
your villains to murder him! Tell me nothing, I say, Richard 
Hurdis — they were your villains, else how should you, a brave 
man, submit, as you did, to be bound and laughed at, while he 
could break from his bonds and escape from the very snare to 
which you so tamely submitted! I will not hear you—they 
were your villains—else how should you, a brave man, submit 
and do nothing! Would he — would William have submitted 
thus] Would he have left his friend to perish] — or, if he 
could not save his life, would he have come sneaking home with 
the tidings of his friend’s murder and his own base cowardice ] 
No, Richard Hurdis ! — I tell you—I answer for the dead—he 
would have pursued these murderers to the ends of the earth! 
He would have dragged them to justice, or slain them with his 
own hands! He never would have slept in his bed till he had 
taken this vengeance ! Day and night would have been to him 
the same ! Day and night, he had pursued them—through the 
forests—through the swamps, in all haunts, in all disguises, till 
he had revenged the murder of his friend—till, for the holy 
blood of friendship, he had drained the hearts of all having any 
hand in his murder! But you—what have you done] Ha! 
ha! ha ! Bravely—bravely, Richard Hurdis ! William thought 
you had courage — he did—and he relied on it! He relied too 


THE MANIAC. 


275 


much. You have shed no hlood, though he is murdered! You 
have neither shed the hlood of his murderers, nor your own! 
Show me a finger-scratch, if you can ! You are — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
this is courage, is it? — and he thought you brave! Well, the 
wisest may be mistaken—the wisest—the very wisest!” 

She went on much further, but her ravings grew incoherent, 
and at length, from imperfect thoughts, her strength being nigh 
exhausted, she only articulated in broken words and sentences. 
On a sudden, she stopped; her eye grew fixed while gazing 
upon me, and her lower jaw became paralyzed, ere the halting 
word was uttered. I saw that a crisis was at hand, and rushed 
toward her at the fortunate moment. I caught her as she fell; 
and she lay paralyzed and senseless, like the very marble, in 
my arms. 


RICHARD HURDI8. 


CHAPTER XL. 

DEATH! 

“ Are they both dead ? I did not think 
To find thee in this pale society 
Of ghosts so soon!” — The Brothers 

Tho ;gh little of a physician, I yet saw that something must 
be don 3 for her relief instantly, in this almost complete suspen¬ 
sion of her powers, or she must perish; and procuring a lancet, 
which was fortunately in the house, made an opening in one of 
her arms. The results were hardly satisfactory. A few drops 
of jellied and almost black blood oozed from the opening, and 
had no visible effect upon her situation. I opened a vein in 
the other arm, but with little better success. Warm fomenta- 
tation and friction were next resorted to, but to no advantage; 
and, leaving the patient to the charge of the mother, I mounted 
my horse, and rode with all speed to the nearest physician—a 
man named Hodges, an ignorant, stupid fellow, but the best 
which at this time our neighborhood could afford. He was one 
of those accommodating asses who have the one merit at least, 
if they are fools in all other respects, of being an unpretending 
one; and gladly, at all times, would he prefer taking the opinion 
of another to the task of making, or the responsibility of giving, 
one of his own. I have heard him ask an old lady if she had 
jalap and calomel in the house; and when she replied that she 
had not, but she “ had some cream of tartar,” answer, “ That 
will do, ma’am,” and give the one medicine in lieu of the other. 
There was little to be looked for at the hands of such a crea¬ 
ture ; but what were we to do ? I had already exhausted all 
my little stock of information on such subjects; and ignorance, 
in a time of emergency, is compelled to turn even to licensed 
stupidity for the relief which it can not find itself. 


DEATH! 


277 


Dr. Hodges came, and did nothing. He reopened the veins 
without advantage, repeated the warm-water fomentations, took 
an extra chew of tobacco, shook his empty head, and remained 
silent. I ventured a suggestion, of the merits of which I had 
only a partial guess. 

“ Would not a blister to the head help her, doctor?” 

“I think it would, Mr. Hurdis — I think you had better 
try it.” 

Cursing the oaf in the bitterness of my heart, I went to work, 
with the help of the old lady, and we prepared a blister. When 
it was ready, we proceeded to cut away the voluminous masses 
of her raven hair, the glistening loveliness of which we could 
not but admire, even while we consigned it to destruction. But 
we were not suffered to proceed in this work. Ere the scissors 
had swept away one shred, the unhappy maiden awakened from 
her stupor; but she awakened not to any mental consciousness. 
She was mad — raving mad; and with the strength of madness 
she rushed from the couch where she was lying, and flew at her 
mother like a tigress. I was fortunately nigh enough to inter¬ 
fere, and save the old lady from her assaults, or the effects 
might have been seriously hurtful. I clasped her in my arms, 
and held her, though with some difficulty. Her strength was 
prodigious under the terrible excitement which raged in her 
bosom; and, though rather a strong man, I found that I dared 
not relax for a single instant in my hold, or she became free. 
Yet she complained not that I held her. She uttered no word 
whatsoever. She knew nothing; she spoke to none. Some¬ 
times a slight moaning sound escaped her lips, but she had no 
other form of language. Her eyes were fixed and fiery; yet 
they never seemed to look upon any one of us. I observed 
that they seemed instinctively to avoid the light, and that they 
shone with a less angry lustre when turned toward the darker 
sections of the apartment, and from the windows. Seeing this, 
I directed the mother to double her curtains, and exclude as 
much of the light as possible: this done, it seemed to relieve 
the intensity of her stare and action. But she was as little dis¬ 
posed to be quiet as before. The moment I yielded in my 
grasp, that moment did she make new exertions to escape; and 
when she failed in her object, that same slight moaning, per- 


278 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


haps, once or twice repeated, was all the acknowledgment given 
by her lips to the annoyance which the constraint evidently 
put upon her. 

In the meantime, what a terrible loveliness shone in her 
countenance and form ! The pythoness, swelling with the volu¬ 
minous fires of the god. were but a poor comparison to the 
divinity of desolation, such as she appeared at that moment to 
my eyes. Her long, black tresses, which we had let loose in 
order to cut, were thrown all around her own neck, and par¬ 
tially over my shoulders as I held her. Her eyes were shoot¬ 
ing out from their spheres—the whites barely perceptible, as 
the dilating orbs seemed to occupy entirely the dry and fiery 
cells from which they yet threatened momently to dart. Pur¬ 
ple lines and blotches gleamed out upon and as suddenly disap¬ 
peared from her face — the consequence, probably, of her re¬ 
straint, and the violent exertions which she made to get herself 
free from it; and her teeth and lips were set as resolutely as if 
death’s last spasm had been already undergone. If they had 
opened at all, it was only when she uttered that heart-piercing 
moan — so faint, so low, yet so thrilling, that it seemed to indi¬ 
cate at every utterance the breaking of some vital string. 

In this way she continued full two hours, without intermitting 
her struggles. My arms had grown weary of the rigid grasp 
which I had been compelled, to keep upon her, and sheer ex¬ 
haustion must have soon compelled me to relax my hold. But 
by this time she, too, had become exhausted; her efforts grew 
fainter, though the insane direction of her mind was not a whit 
changed. Gradually, I felt her weight increase upon me, and 
her own exertions almost entirely cease; and I thought at 
length that I might safely return her to the couch. It was with 
some difficulty that I did so, for her poor mother — miserable 
and infirm, not to say terrified — could give me no help; and 
the doctor, no less terrified than she, had hurried off, on the first 
exhibition of the maiden’s fury, to procure her, as he promised, 
some medicine which was to be potential for everything. But 
the doctor knew not the disease of his patient. With all his 
“ parmaceti” he could do nothing for that “ inward bruise” 
which was mortifying at her heart. 

When fairly placed in the bed, I found it still somewhat dif 


DEATH ! 


279 


ficult to keep her there; and, in order to avoid giving her pain, 
which the grasp of my hand might do, I contrived to fold the 
bedclothes in such a maimer about her as not only to retard her 
movements, but to enable us, by sitting upon either side, to 
keep her down. An old negro-servant was called in to assist 
in this duty, and with the mother’s aid I was partially relieved. 
With a few struggles more, her eyes gradually closed, and her 
limbs seemed to relax in sleep. An occasional moan from her lips 
alone told us that she suffered still; and a sudden opening and 
flashing of her eye at other moments still served to convince us 
that her show of sleep was deceptive. She slept not, and we 
were compelled to be watchful still. 

While she remained in this situation, our doctor returned, to 
my great surprise, bringing with him a score of bottles, with 
one nostrum or another. He seemed a little more confident now 
in what he should do, having most probably, during his absence, 
consulted some book of authority in the circle of his limited 
reading. Thus prepared, he compounded a dose from some 
two or three bottles, one of which, asafoetida, soon declared its 
quality to our nostrils, and left no hope to Dr. Hodges of ma¬ 
king a medical mystery — a practice so common among small 
practitioners — of the agent by which he was to work the salva¬ 
tion of the patient. I had no great hope of the potion which he 
brought, for I had no great faith in the doctor; but I readily 
took the wineglass in which he compounded it, and addressed 
myself to the arduous task of forcing it down the throat of the 
poor sufferer. It was an arduous task indeed ! Her teeth were 
riveted together, and she seemed to have just sense enough to 
close them more tenaciously in defiance to our prayer that she 
might open them. Here was a difficulty; but, as Hodges in¬ 
sisted upon the vital importance of the dose, cruel as the opera¬ 
tion seemed, I determined to do all that I could to make her 
take it. In our efforts we were at length forced to pry her 
teeth apart with our fingers, and to force the glass between 
them. It was an error to have used the wineglass in such a 
situation; and the reflection of a single instant would have 
taught us to transfer the medicine to a spoon. We were taught 
this lesson by an incident of startling terror ; for no sooner had 
we put the edge of the glass between her divided teeth, than 


280 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


they closed upon it, crunching it into the minutest fragments. 
Fortunately, I was prompt enough to prevent the worst conse¬ 
quences of this act. I dropped the fragment of the glass which 
remained in my hands, and grasped her instantly by the throat. 
I grasped her almost as tightly as I should have done a mortal 
foe. It was a desperate resort, for a desperate situation. I 
nearly strangled her, but it Was the only thing that could have 
saved her from swallowing the broken particles. With my fin¬ 
gers, while the jaws were stretched apart, I drew out the bits 
of glass, which were numerous, though not without cutting her 
mouth and gums in a shocking manner. The blood ran from 
her mouth, and over the side of her pallid face, staining its pu¬ 
rity ; and her tongue, bleeding also the while, hung over the 
lips. And yet she seemed to feel none of the pain: no cry 
escaped her; no struggle was made; and the occasional moan 
which now and then continued to escape her was the acknowl¬ 
edgment of a greater agony than any for which we labored to 
provide remedies. 

.Dr. Hodges persevered in his physic, but we might as well 
have spared the poor girl the pain of forcing it down her throat, 
for it did no good. Her madness, it is true, was no longer hys¬ 
terical ; but this change was probably quite as much the result 
of exhaustion as of the medicine we gave her. She seemed 
conscious of none of our labors; yet she studiously kept her 
eyes from the spectator, and fixed them upon the darkest part 
of the wall of her chamber. Her grief was speechless in all 
other respects; she seemed not to hear, and she answered none 
of our inquiries. In hope to arouse and provoke her conscious¬ 
ness, I even ventured to speak to her of her lover, and the cruel 
fate which had befallen him. I named to her the bitter words 
of death which I had shrunk before to utter. But the ear 
seemed utterly obtuse. She moved neither limb nor muscle, 
and the stupor of complete mental indifference was gradually 
overcoming all her faculties. Thus she continued throughout 
that day. 

Night came on, and yet there was no change. It was a dis¬ 
mal night to me. I sat up with her and watched her with a 
degree of nervous irritation and anxiety which led me to fear, 
at moments, that I might fall into some condition of insanity 


DEATH ! 


281 


like that I witnessed. The poor old mother strove to sleep, but 
she could not subdue the nature within her; and that raised 
her every moment to look into the face of her child, whose un¬ 
conscious eyes were yet bright and unblessed by sleep. Be¬ 
sides these, there were no interruptions to the general silence 
of the night, unless that slight and now scarcely sensible moan, 
which continued at intervals to escape the lips of the sufferer, 
might be called one. Day dawned upon us, and found her still 
in the same condition. We gave her the prescribed physic; 
but I felt, while pouring it down her throat, that our labors 
were as cruel as they were idle. We administered the little 
nourishment which she took, in the same manner, by violence. 
She craved nothing — she asked for nothing; and what we gave 
her brought no nourishment in consequence. 

The day and night passed in the same manner with the pre¬ 
ceding. I snatched a few hours’ sleep during the day, and this 
enabled me again to sit up with her the night following. But 
there were other watchers besides myself around her bed; and, 
amid all my agonizing thought of the terrible picture of afflic¬ 
tion present in my eyes, there were other thoughts and feelings 
of a far different character mingling among them and operating 
upon my mind. Mary Easterby sat by the bedside of the invalid, 
and our eyes and hands met more than once during the night, 
which to me, though not less painful, was far less wearisome, 
than that which I had passed before. Such is the nature of 
man. We foster our petty affections even at the grave of our 
friend’s sweetest hopes. Our plans and promises for self desert 
us nowhere; they mingle in with our holiest emotions; they 
pile the dust of earth upon the very altars of heaven ! Perhaps 
it is only right that such should be the case. Our nature while 
on earth must be, to a certain extent, earthy. It may be, too, 
that our pride undergoes some restraint when it discovers that 
base necessities and narrow aims clog the loftiest wing, and 
dazzle the most eagle-eyed of the soaring spirits among men. 

But why linger upon a painful narrative like this ? why re¬ 
cord throbs and agonies ? I will hasten to a conclusion which 
the reader may readily anticipate. Emmeline Walker died. 
In three days more she was silent for ever! Her hopes, her 
fears, her pangs — all were silent, all buried. Five days did 


282 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


she live in this state of suspended consciousness—taking no 
nourishment save that which Ave poured down her throat by 
main force; and every added hour proved her less able to op¬ 
pose us in our labors of doubtful kindness. She sank just after 
that last paroxysm in which she crushed the brittle glass be¬ 
tween her teeth. Our man of art had exhausted his slender 
resources of skill, and, with a modesty that did not shake a con¬ 
fident head of power to the last moment, he soon declared his in¬ 
ability to help her more. But we needed not his words to give us 
painful assurance to this effect. We saw it with our own eyes, 
while looking into the fast-glazing orbs of hers. We knew, from 
every symptom, that she must die. Perhaps it was as well — 
what should she live for ? 

It was on the sixth day after her attack, when her powers 
had been so far exhausted that it became somewhat doubtful at 
moments whether she breathed or not—and when, up to that 
time, she had given no sort of heed to any of the circumstances 
going on around her — that she suddenly started, as if out of a 
deep sleep, and turned her sad but still bright eyes, now full of 
divine intelligence, upon me. There >vas “ speculation” in their 
orbs once more. The consecrating mind had returned to its 
dwelling, though it were only to set all in order, and then dis¬ 
pose of it for ever. I bent forward as I saw the glance which 
she gave me, and breathlessly asked her how she felt. 

“ Quite well,” she answered, in a scarcely-perceptible whis¬ 
per— “quite well, Bichard; but it is so dark! Do put aside 
that curtain, if you please. Mother has shut everything up. I 
don’t know r Avhetlier it’s daylight or not.” 

I rose and put aside the curtain; and the waiting sunlight — 
the broken but bright beams that lie sprinkled through the 
leaves—came gliding into the chamber. Her eyes bright¬ 
ened, as if with a natural sympathy, when she beheld them. 
She made an effort to raise herself in the bed, but sunk back 
with an expression of pain, which slightly impressed itself upon 
her countenance, e\ T en as a breath passes over the mirror, giving 
a momentary stain to its purity. It was one breath of the ap¬ 
proaching tyrant — to her the consoler. Seeing that she desired 
to be raised, I lifted and sustained her head upon my bosom 
Her mother asked her if she felt better. 


DEATH ! 


263 


“Well, quite well,” was her answer. A minute did not 
elapse after that, when I felt a slight shiver pass over her frame, 
which then remained motionless. Her breathing was suspended. 
I let her head sink back gradually upon the pillow, and, looking 
in her face, I saw that her pure yet troubled spirit had departed 
for ever. My watching was ended. 


?84 


RICHARD HURDIB. 


CHAPTER XL1. 

LOVE AND REVENGE. 

“ I shall find time; 

When you have took some comfort, I’ll begin 
To mourn his death and scourge the murderer.” 

T. Heywood, 1656. 

The ending and beginning I had seen—the whole of this 
catastrophe. We buried the poor maiden in a grove near the 
dwelling in which her feet had often rambled with him whose 
grave should have been beside her. There was nothing more 
for me to do—there was no reason why I should linger in 
Marengo; and I resolved once more to leave it. As yet, my 
error remained uncorrected in regard to Mary Easterby. I 
still deemed her the affianced wife of John Hurdis; and— some¬ 
times wondering why he came not with her to the dwelling of 
Emmeline Walker, and sometimes doubting their alliance, from 
little signs and circumstances, which now and then occurred to 
my observation,— I was still impressed with the conviction that 
there was no more hope for me. I escorted her home after the 
burial of Emmeline, and sad and sweet was our conference by 
the way. We rode together, side by side on horseback, and we 
soon left the animals to their own motion, which was gratefully 
sluggish to me. I will not say whether I thought it so to her, 
but, at least, she gave no symptoms of impatience, nor made 
any effort to accelerate the movements of her steed. It will 
not, perhaps, be assuming too much, to suppose that, in s( me 
large respects, our thoughts and feelings ran together in satisfied 
companionship. We were both deeply affected and subdued by 
the cruel events to which we had been witnesses. There was 
a dreadful warning to hope, and love, and youth, in the sad 
history which has been written, and which we were forced to 



LOVE AND REVENGE. 


285 


read in every stage of its performance. Never could morality 
teach more terribly to youth its own uncertainties, and the 
mutations hanging around that deity whose altar of love it is 
most apt to seek in worship. How evanescent to our eyes 
seemed then all our images of delight. The sunlight, which 
was bright and beautiful around us—making a “ bridal of earth 
and sky,”—we looked upon with doubt and apprehension as a 
delusion which must only woo to vanish. We spoke together 
of these things; and what, it may be asked, was the conclusion 
of all this sombrous reflection ? Did it make either of us for¬ 
swear the world and hope? Did it make either of us more 
doubtful and desponding than before? No! Its effects were 
softening and subduing, not overthrowing — not destructive of 
any of those altars, to which love brings wreaths that wither, 
and offers vows that are rejected or forgotten. We lost not one 
hope or dream of youth. We gave freedom to none of our 
anticipations. Even the lessons taught us by the death of those 
who, loving in life so fondly, in death were not divided, were 
lessons of love. The odor of the sacrifice made amends for the 
consumption by fire of the rich offerings which were upon the 
altar; and love lost none of his loveliness either in her eyes or 
mine, because, in this instance, as in a thousand others, it had 
failed to rescue its votaries from the grasp of a more certain, if 
not a greater power. The lesson which was taught us by the 
fate of Emmeline Walker, made us esteem still more highly 
the sacred influence, which could consecrate so sweet and pure 
a spirit to immortality, and lead it, without struggle or reluc¬ 
tance, into the brazen jaws of death. What a triumph to youth, 
to fancy, to reflection, was the thought which portrayed a power 
so wonderful — so valuable to those who more than love already. 

“ I will see you before I leave Marengo, Mary,” was my 
promise on leaving her that evening. 

“ What! you mean to leave us, again, Richard ?” was her 
involuutary and very earnest demand. “ Oh ! do not, Richard 
— wherefore would you go? Why would you encounter such 
cruel risks as befell poor William ? Stay with us—leave us not 
again.” 

With an utterance and movement, equally involuntary, I 
took her hand and replied:— 


286 


RICHARD flURDIS. 


“ And would you have me stay, Mary ? Wherefore ? What 
reward can you give ? what is there now in your power to give 
that could bribe me to compliance ?” 

I paused just at the time when I should have spoken freely. 
To w hat I had said, she could make no answer; yet she had 
her answer ready to what I might have said. But I said noth¬ 
ing, and she made no reply. Yet, could I have seen it!—had 
I not been still the blind and besotted slave and victim to my 
own jaundicing and jealous apprehensions, the blush upon her 
cheek, the tremor upon her lip, the downcast and shaded eye, 
the faltering accent—all these would have conveyed an an¬ 
swer, which might have made me happy then. And yet these 
persuasive signs did not utterly escape my sight. I felt them, 
and wondered at them — and was almost tempted, in the new 
warmth of heart which they brought me, to declare my affec¬ 
tions, but for the thought that it would be unseemly to do so, 
at a moment when we had just left the chamber of death, and 
beheld the last gleam of life pass from the eyes of loveliness 
and youth. Fool that I was, as if love did not plant his roses 
even on the grave of his worshipper, and find his most flourish¬ 
ing soil in the heart of the beloved one. 

That night my mother drew me aside, and asked me with 
some significance, what had passed between Mary and myself. 

“ Nothing.” 

“ What! have you not spoken ?” 

“ Of what ?” 

“ Of your love ! —” 

“No! Why should you think it, mother? What reason? 
Is she not engaged to John? is that matter broken off?” 

“ I think it is—he has not been to see her for a week.” 

“ Indeed!” 

“ And have you not seen, my son, how sad she looks ? she 
has looked so ever since you went away.” 

“That may be only because he has not been to see her, 
mother; or, it may be, because of the affliction which she has 
been compelled to witness.” 

“ Well, Richard, I won’t say that it is not, and yet, my son, 
I’m somehow inclined to think that you could have her for the 
asking.” 


LOYE AND REVENGE. 


287 


“I)o you think so, mother, and yet — even if it were so 
mother, I would not ask. The woman who has once accepted 
the hand of John Hurdis, though she afterward rejects him, is 
not the woman for me.” 

“ But, Richard, I’m not so sure now, that she ever did accept 
him. There was that poor woman, Mrs. Pickett, only a few 
days ago came here, and she took particular pains to let me 
know that Mary and John were never half so near together, to 
use her own words, as Mary and yourself.” 

“ How could she know anything about it V* was my reply. 

“ Well, I don’t know; but I can tell you, she’s a very know¬ 
ing woman —” 

“ She would scarcely be the confidant of Mary, nevertheless.” 

“But you will see Mary, Richard—you will try?” 

“ If I thought, mother, that she and John had never been 
engaged — if I knew that. But I will see her.” 

The promise satisfied both my mother and myself for the 
time; and I now gave myself up to reflection in solitude, as a 
new task had been forced upon me, by the circumstances of the 
few past days. I had suffered more in mind from beholding the 
misery and madness of Emmeline Walker, than it would be 
manly to avow; and there was one portion of this tragedy 
which more than any other, impressed itself upon me. I was 
haunted by the continual presence of the lovely maniac, as she 
appeared at the moment when she denounced me as deserting 
my friend, exposing and leaving him to peril, and finally, suffer¬ 
ing his murder to go unavenged. The more I thought upon 
this last passage of her angry speech, the more impressively did 
it take the shape of moral requisition. I strove seriously to 
examine it as a question of duty, whether I was bound to go 
upon this errand of retribution or not, and the answers of my 
mind were invariably and inevitably the same. ‘ Shall the mur¬ 
derer go unpunished — shall so heinous a crime remain una¬ 
venged? Are there no claims of friendship — of manhood 
upon you ? The blood of the innocent calls upon you. The 
indignities which you yourself have undergone—these call 
upon you. But a louder call upon you than all, is the demand 
of Society. She calls upon you to ferret out these lurkers upon 
the highway — to bring them to justice that the innocent travel- 


288 


RTCHARD IIURDIS. 


ler may not be shot down from the thicket, in the sunshine, ii 
the warm morning of youth, and hope, and confidence. True 
— the laws of man do not summon you forth on this mission; 
but is there no stronger voice in your heart inciting you to the 
sacred work] The brave man waits not for his country’s sum¬ 
mons to take the field against the foreign enemy—shall he need 
her call when his friend is slain almost by his side; and when 
sworn foes to friendship, and truth, and love, and all the social 
virtues, lurk in bands around their several homes to prey upon 
them as they unconsciously come forth ] Can you doubt that it 
is your duty to seek and exterminate these wretches ] You say 
that is the duty of others no less than of yourself; but does 
the neglect of others to perform their duties, render yours 
unnecessary or release you? On the contrary, does it not 
make it more incumbent upon you to do more than would be 
your duty under other circumstances, and to supply, as much as 
lies in your power, their deficiencies V Such was the reasoning 
of my own mind on this subject; and it forced conviction upon 
me. In the woods where I had meditated the matter, I made 
my vow to the avenging deities. 

“ I will seek the murderers, so help me Heaven! I will 
suffer not one of them to escape, if it be within the scope of 
my capacity and arm, to bring them to justice.” And, even 
upon the ground where I had made this resolution, I kneeled 
and prayed for the requisite strength and encouragement from 
Heaven in the execution of my desperate vow. 

This resolution induced another, and endued me with a courage 
which before I had not felt. Conceiving myself a destined man, 
I overleaped, at a moment, all the little boundaries of false deli¬ 
cacy, morbid sensibility, and mere custom, which before, had, 
perhaps, somewhat taken from my natural hue of resolution — 
and the next day I rode over to the house of Mary Easterby. 
A complete change by this time had taken place in my feelings 
in one respect. I was no longer apprehensive of what I said 
in speaking to Mary. I now proceeded as if in compliance 
with a prescribed law; and asking her to walk with me, I led 
her directly to the favorite walk which, in our childhood, our 
own feet diiefly had beaten out in the forests. I conducted her 
lmost ii silence to the huge fallen tree which had formed the 


LOVE AND REVENGE. 


2Si 


boundary of our previous rambles, and seated her upon it, and 
myself beside her, as I had done a thousand times before. 

“ And now, Mary,” I said, taking her hand, “ I have a seri¬ 
ous question to ask you, and beg that you will answer it with 
the same unhesitating directness with which I ask it. Your 
answer will nearly affect my future happiness.” 

I paused, but she was silent — evidently through emotion— 
and I continued thus :— 

“You know me too well to suppose that I would say or do 
anything to offend you, and certainly you will believe me when 
I assure you that it is no idle curiosity which prompts me to ask 
the question which I will now propose.” 

A slight pressure of her fingers upon my wrist, her hand be¬ 
ing clasped the while in mine, was my sufficient and encour¬ 
aging answer, and I then boldly asked if she was or had been 
engaged to John Hurdis ? Her answer, as the reader must 
anticpate, was unequivocally in the negative. In the next mo¬ 
ment she was in my arms — she was mine ! Then followed ex¬ 
planations which did away, as by a breath, with a hundred little 
circumstances of my own jaundiced judgment, and of my broth¬ 
er’s evil instigation, which for months I had looked upon as 
insuperable barriers. For the part which John Hurdis had in 
raising them, I was at that moment quite too happy not to forgive 
him. I now proceeded to tell Mary of my contemplated jour¬ 
ney, but not of its objects. This I kept from the knowledge of all 
around me, for its successful prosecution, I had already well con¬ 
ceived, could only result from the secrecy with which I pursued 
it. Nor did I suffer her to know the direction of country in 
which I proposed to travel; this caution was due to my general 
plan, and called for, at the same time, by her natural apprehen¬ 
sions, which would have been greatly alarmed to know that I 
was about to go into a region where my friend had been so in¬ 
humanly murdered. I need not say that she urged every argu¬ 
ment to keep me in Marengo. She pleaded her own attachment, 
which, having once avowed, she now delighted in; and urged 
every consideration which might be supposed available among 
the thoughts of a young maiden unwilling to let her lover go. 
But my resolve had been too seriously and solemnly taken. “ I 
had an oath in heaven!” and no ties, even such, so dear ones, 

13 


290 


RICHARD HURD IS. 


as those which I had just formed, could make me desire escape 
from it if I could. She was compelled to yield the contest, since 
I assured her that my resolution was no less imperative than my 
engagements; but I promised to return soon, and our marriage 
was finally arranged for that period. What an hour of bliss 
was that, in those deep groves, under that prevailing silence! 
What an Elysium had suddenly grown up around me! How 
potent was the magician which could make us forget the graves 
upon which we stood, and the blood still flowing around us, 
dreaming only of those raptures which, in the fortunes of two 
other fond creatures like ourselves, had so suddenly been de¬ 
feated ! In that hour, I thought not of the dangers I was about 
to undergo, and she — the dear girl hanging on my bosom, and 
shedding tears of pleasure — she seemed to forget that earth 
ever contained a tomb ! 

Next morning, after we had taken breakfast, I strolled down 
the avenue to the entrance, and was suddenly accosted by a 
man whom I had never seen before. He rode up with an air 
of confidence, and asked me if I was Mr. Hurdis—Mr. John 
Hurdis ? I replied in the negative, but offered to show him the 
way to the house, where he would find the person whom he 
sought. We met John coming forth. 

“ That is your man, sir,” said I to the stranger. He thanked 
me, and instantly advanced to my brother. I could not help 
being a spectator, for I was compelled to pass them in order to 
enter the house; and my attention was doubly fixed by the 
singular manner in which the stranger offered John Hurdis his 
hand. The manner of the thing seemed also to provoke the 
astonishment of John, himself, who looked at me with surprise 
amounting to consternation. I was almost disposed to laugh 
out at the idiot stare with which he transferred his gaze from 
me to the stranger, and to me again, for the expression seemed 
absolutely ludicrous; but I was on terms of too much civility 
with my brother to exhibit any such unnecessary familiarity; 
and, passing into the house, I left the two together. Their 
business seemed of a private nature, for they went into the 
neighboring woods to finish it; and Jolm Hurdis did not return 
from the interview, until I had set forth a second time on my 
travels. The meaning of this conference, and the cause of that 


1,0YE and revenge. 


291 


singular approach of the stranger, which awakened so much 
seeming astonishment in the face of John Hurdis, will be suffi¬ 
ciently explained hereafter. Little did I then imagine the na¬ 
ture of that business which I had undertaken, and of the mys¬ 
terious developments of crime to which my inquiries would 
lead me. 



292 


RICHARD HIJRDIH. 


CHAPTER XL11. 

DESPAIR OF THE VICTIMS. 

“What! thou dost quit me then— 

In the first blush of my necessity, 

The danger yet at distance.”— Captive. 

It was, perhaps, an earnest of success in the pursuit which 1 
had undertaken, that I did not underrate, to myself, its many 
difficulties. I felt that I would have to contend with experi¬ 
enced cunning and probably superior strength — that nothing 
but the utmost adroitness and self-control could possibly enable 
me to effect my purposes. My first object was to alter my per¬ 
sonal appearance, so as to defeat all chance of recognition by 
any of the villains with whom I had previously come in collis¬ 
ion. This was a work calling for much careful consideration. 
To go down to Mobile, change my clothes, and adopt such 
fashions as would more completely disguise me, were my imme¬ 
diate designs; and I pushed my way to this, my first post, with 
all speed, and without any interruption. My first care, in Mo¬ 
bile, was to sell my horse, which I did, for one hundred and 
eighty dollars. I had now nearly five hundred dollars in pos¬ 
session— a small part in silver, the rest in United States bank, 
Alabama, and Louisiana notes, all of which were equally cur¬ 
rent. I soon procured a couple of entire suits, as utterly differ¬ 
ent from anything I had previously worn as possible. Then, 
having a proper regard to the usual decoration of the professed 
gamblers of our country, I entered a jeweller’s establishment, 
and bought sundry bunches of seals, a tawdry watch, a huge 
chain of doubtful, but sold as virgin, gold; and some breast¬ 
pins and shirt-buttons of saucer size. To those who had per¬ 
sonally known me before, I was well assured that no disguise 
would have been more perfect than that afforded by these trin- 


DISPAIR OP THE VICTIMS. 


298 


Rets; but, when, in addition to these and the other changes in 
my habit, of which I have spoken, I state that my beard was 
suffered to grow goat-like, after the most approved models of 
dandyism, under the chin, in curling masses, and my whiskers, 
in rival magnificence, were permitted to overrun my cheeks — 
I trust that I shall be believed, when I aver that after a few 
weeks space, I scarcely knew myself. I had usually been 
rather fastidious in keeping a smooth cheek and chin, and I 
doubt very much, whether my own father ever beheld a two 
days’ beard upon me, from the day that I found myself man 
enough to shave at all, to the present. The more I contempla¬ 
ted my own appearance, the more sanguine I became of success; 
and I lingered in Mobile a little time longer, in order to give 
beard and whiskers a fair opportunity to overrun a territory 
which before had never shown its stubble. When this time 
was elapsed, my visage was quite Siberian; a thick cap of 
otter-skin, which I now procured, fully completed my northern 
disguises, and, exchanging my pistols at a hardware establish¬ 
ment, for others not so good, but for which I had to give some 
considerable boot, I felt myself fairly ready for my perilous ad¬ 
venture. It called for some resolution to go forward when the 
time came for my departure, and when I thought of the dan¬ 
gers before me; but, when, in the next instant, I thought of 
the murder of my friend, and of the sad fate of his betrothed, 
my resolution of vengeance was renewed. I felt that I had an 
oath in Heaven — sworn—registered; — and I repeated it on 
earth! 

Let me now return, for an instant, to the condition of my 
worthy brother, and relate some passages, in their proper place 
in this narrative, which, however, did not come to my knowledge 
for some time after. The reader will remember my meeting 
with the stranger at the entrance of the avenue leading to my 
father’s house, who asked for John Hurdis, and to whom I in¬ 
troduced him. It will also be remembered that I remarked the 
surprise, nay almost consternation, which his appearance and 
address seemed to produce in my brother’s countenance. There 
was a reason for all this, though I dreamed not of it then. John 
Hurdis had good cause for the terrors, which, at that time, I found 
rather ludicrous, and was almost disposed to laugh at. They went 


294 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


together into the woods, and, as I left the plantation for Mobile, 
an hour after, I saw no more of either of them on that occasion. 
The business of the stranger may best be told in John Hurdjs’s 
own words. That very afternoon he went to the cottage of 
Pickett, whom he summoned forth, as was his custom, by a sig¬ 
nal agreed upon between them. When together, in a voice of 
great agitation, John began the dialogue as follows:— 

“I am ruined, Pickett—ruined, undone for ever ! Who do 
you think has come to me—presented himself at the very house, 
and demanded to see me ?” 

Pickett looked up, but exhibited no sort of surprise at this 
speech, as he replied by a simple inquiry: “ Who V* 

“ A messenger from this d—d confederacy. A fellow with 
his cursed signs — and a summons to meet the members at some 
place to which he is to give me directions at a future time. I 
am required to be in readiness to go Heaven knows where, and 
to meet with Heaven knows who — to do Heaven knows what!” 

Pickett answered coolly enough, and with an air of resigna¬ 
tion to his fate, which confounded Hurdis: — 

“ He has been to me too, and given me the same notice.” 

“Ha! and what did you tell him — what answer—what an¬ 
swer V* 

“ That I would come—that I was always ready. I suppose 
you told him so, likewise V* 

“Ay — you may well suppose it—what else, in the name of 
all the fiends, could I tell him. I have no help — I must sub¬ 
mit— I am at their mercy—thanks to your bungling, Ben 
Pickett—you have drawn us both into a bog which is closing 
upon us like a gulf. I told him as you told him, though it was 
in the gall of bitterness that I felt myself forced to say so much, 
that I would obey the summons and be ready when the time 
came to meet the ‘ mystic confederacy/ Hell’s curses upon 
their confederates and mystery — that I was at their disposal 
as I was at their mercy, to go as they bid me, and do as they 
commanded—I was their servant—their slave, their ox, their 
ass, their anything. Death! death! that I should move my 
tongue to such admission, and feel my feet bound in obedience 
with my tongue.” 

“ It’s mighty hard, ’squire, but it’s no use getting into a pas- 


DESPAIR OF THE VICTIMS. 296 

sion about it. We’re in, and, like the horse in the mire, we 
mustn’t think to bolt, till we’re out of it.” 

“ It's mighty hard, and no use getting in a passion,” said 
Hurdis ironically, and with bitterness repeating the words of 
his companion. “Well, I know not, Ben Pickett, what situa¬ 
tion would authorize a man in becoming angry and passionate 
if this does not. You seem to take it coolly, however. You’re 
more of a philosopher, I see, than I can ever hope to make myself.” 

“Well, ’squire, it’s my notion,” said the other, “that what’s 
not to be helped by grumbling, will hurt the grumbler. I’ve 
found it so always; and now that I think of it, ’squire, there’s 
less reason for you to grumble and complain than anybody I 
know; and as it’s just as well to speak the truth first as last, I 
may say now once for all, that it was you that bungled, not me, 
or we shouldn’t have got into this bog; or we might have got 
out of it.” 

“ Indeed! I bungle, and how, I pray you, Mr. Pickett ? 
Wasn’t it you that was caught in your own ambush ?” 

“ Yes — but who sent me ? I was doing your business, ’squire, 
as well as I could; and if you didn’t like my ability, why did 
you trust it? Why didn’t you go yourself? I didn’t want to 
kill Richard Hurdis — I wasn’t his brother.” 

“ And then to mistake your man too — that was another spe¬ 
cimen of your bungling.” 

“ Look you, ’squire, the less you say about that matter, the 
better for both of us. The bungling is but a small part of that 
business that I’m sorry for. I’m sorry for the whole of it, and 
if sorrow could put back the life in Bill Carrington’s heart, and 
be security for Dick Hurdis’s hereafter, they’d both live for 
ever for me. But if I was such a bungler at first, ’squire, there’s 
one thing I may tell you, and tell you plainly. I was never 
afraid to pull trigger, when everything depended on it. The 
cure for all my bungling was in your own hands. When the 
man first talked with us in these same woods, under them wil¬ 
lows, what did I say to you ? Didn’t I offer to close with him, 
if you’d only agree to use your pistol ? And wasn’t you afraid ?” 

“ I was not afraid — it was prudence only that made me put 
it off,” said Hurdis hastily. 

“ And what made you put it off when you waylaid him in 


296 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


Ton-Mile Branch ? No, ’squire, as you confessed yourself, it 
was because you were afraid to shoot, though everything hung 
on that one fire. Had you tumbled that fellow, we hadn’t seen 
this; and if it had been convenient for me to have done it, as 
God’s my judge, I’d much rather have put the bullet through a 
dozen fellows like that, than through one clever chap like Bill 
Carrington. That’s a business troubles me, ’squire; and more 
than once since he’s been covered, I’ve seen him walk over my 
path, leaving a cold chill all along the track behind him.” 

“ Pshaw, Ben, at your ghosts again.” 

“No, ’squire, they’re at me. But let’s talk no more about it. 
What can’t be undone, may as well be let alone. We must 
work out our troubles as we can; and the worst trouble to our 
thoughts is, that we have worked ourselves into them. We 
have nobody but ourselves to blame.” 

The manner of Pickett had become somewhat dogged and 
inflexible, and it warned Hurdis, who was prompt in observing 
the changes of temper in his neighbor, to be more considerate 
in his remarks, and more conciliating in his tone of utterance. 

“Well, but Ben, what is to be done? What are we to do 
about this summons ? How shall we get over it ? how avoid it ?” 

“Avoid it! I don’t think to avoid it, ’squire.” 

“ What! you intend to go when they call you ?” 

“Certainly — what can I do ? Don’t you intend to go? 
Did you not promise obedience ?” 

“ Yes, but I never thought of going. My hope was, that 
something might turn up between this and then, that would in¬ 
terpose for my safety. Indeed I never thought of anything at 
the moment, but how best to get rid of the emissary.” 

“ That’s the smallest matter of all,” said Pickett. 

“Now it is,” replied Hurdis, “but it'was not then, for I 
dreaded lest some one should ask his business. Besides, he 
was brought up to me by Richard, and his keen eyes seem al¬ 
ways to look through me when he speaks. As you say, to get 
rid of him is in truth a small business, to getting rid of bis gang. 
How can that be done is the question ? I had hope when I 
came to you—” 

The other interrupted him hastily. 

“ Don’t come to me for hope, ’squire; I should bungle, per- 


DESPAIR OF THE VICTIMS. 


297 


haps, in what I advise you to do, or in what I do for you my¬ 
self. Let us each paddle our canoes apart. I’m a poor man 
that can’t hope to manage well the business of a rich one; and 
as I’ve done so badly for you before, it won’t be wise in you to 
employ me again. Indeed, for that matter, I won’t be employ¬ 
ed by you again. It’s hard enough to do evil for another, and 
nuch harder, to get no thanks for it.” 

“ Pshaw, Ben, you’re in your sulks now — think better of it, 
my friend. Don’t mind a harsh word — a hasty word — uttered 
when I was angry, and without meaning.” 

“I don’t mind that, ’squire—I wish it was as easy to forget 
all the rest, as to forgive that. But the blood, ’squire — the 
blood that is on my hands — blood that I didn’t mean to spill, 
’squire — ’tis that makes me angry and sulky — so that I don’t 
care what comes up. It’s all one to me what happens now.” 

“ But this fellow, Ben. You say you have resolved to comply 
with the summons, and to go when they call for you 1” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And what am I to do ?” 

“ The same, I suppose. I’m ready to go now; and I give 
you the last counsel, ’squire, which I think I ever will give 
you, and that is to make the best of a bad situation—do with 
a good grace what you can’t help doing, and it will go the bet¬ 
ter with you. They can’t have any good reason to expose a 
man of family to shame, and they will keep your secret so long 
as you obey their laws.” 

“But suppose they command me to commit crime—to rob, 
to murder ?” 

“Well then you must ask yourself which you’d prefer — to 
obey or to swing. It’s an easy question.” 

“ On all sides — the pit—the fire — the doom !” was the piti¬ 
able and despairing exclamation of Hurdis, as he clasped his 
forehead with his hands, and closed his eyes against the terrors 
which his imagination brought before them. Suddenly recur¬ 
ring, he asked — 

“ But why, Ben, do you say this is the last counsel which 
you will give me ? You do not mean to suffer a hasty and 
foolish word, for which I have already uttered my regrets, to 
operate in your mind against me—” 

13 * 


298 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


“ No, ’Squire Hurdis, I don’t mind the words of contempt 
that you rich men utter for the poor; if I did, I should be mis¬ 
erable enough myself, and make many others more so. That’s 
gone out of my mind, and, as I tell you, I forget it all when I 
think of those worse matters which I can’t so well forget.” 

“ Why, then, say you will counsel me no more V* 

Because I’m about to leave Marengo for ever.” 

“ Ha ! remove ! where — when ?” 

“ In three days, ’squire, I’ll be off, bag and baggage, for the 
‘ nation.’ My wife’s ripe for it; she’s been at me a long time 
to be off from a place where nobody knows any good of me. 
4.nd I have heard a good deal about the ‘ nation.’ ” 

“And what will you do there for a livelihood 1 ?” 

“Well, just what I can; try, at least, to live a little more 
honestly than I did here — or more respectably, which is not 
often the same thing.” 

“ But do you expect, when there, to evade this confederacy ? * 
Hurdis eagerly demanded. 

“No — I have no such hope.” 

“ How, then, can you hope to live more honestly ?” 

“ More respectably, I may.” 

“ They will summon you to do their crimes.” 

“ I will do them.” 

“ What! shed more blood at a time when you are troubled 
for what’s already done ?” 

“Yes — I will obey where I can not escape; but I will do 
no crime of that sort again on my own account—nothing which 
I am not forced to do. But if they say, ‘ Strike,’ I will do so 
as readily as if it was the best action which they commanded. 
I will cut the throat of my best friend at their bidding; for you 
see, ’squire, I have been so long knocked about in the world — 
now to one side, now to another, like a clumsy log going down¬ 
stream—that I’m now quite indifferent, I may say, to all the 
chances of the current, and I’ll just go wherever it may drive 
me. This ‘ confederacy’ can’t make me worse than I have been 
—than I am — and it increases my security and strength. It 
gives me more certain means and greater power; and, if I am 
to be forced, I will make what use I can of the power that 
forces me.” 


DESPAIR OF THE VICTIMS. 29G 

“But, Ben, such a resolution will make you a willing and 
active member of this clan.” 

“ Surely !” said the other indifferently. 

“ All your old interests and friendships, Ben, would be for¬ 
saken, rooted up—” 

“ Ay, ’squire, and my old friends just as liable to my bullet 
and knife as my enemies, if the command of the confederacy 
required me to use them. You yourself, ’squire—though we 
have worked together for a long time — even you I would not 
spare, if they required me to shed your blood; and you will 
see from this that there is no hope for you unless you comply 
with the summons, and heartily give yourself up to the interests 
of the whole fraternity.” 

Hurdis was stricken dumb by this frank avowal of his asso¬ 
ciate. He had no more to say; and, with a better understand¬ 
ing of each other than either had ever possessed before, there 
Avas now a wall between them, over which neither at the pres¬ 
ent moment seemed willing to look. 

In three days more, Pickett with all his family was on his 
way toward the “ nation,” where, it may be added in this place, 
he had already made arrangements with the emissary for a 
more active co-operation with the members of the “Mystic 
Confederacy.” His destiny, which forced him into the bosom 
of this clan, seemed thoroughly to yield to his desire. The buf¬ 
feting of the world, of which he had spoken, had only made 
him the more indifferent to the loveliness of virtue—more reck¬ 
less of the risk, and less averse to the natural repulsiveness, of 
vice. 


300 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


CHAPTER XLIII 

AMONG THE ENEMY. 

-“He seemed 

For dignity composed, and high exploit; 

But all was false and hollow.” — Milton. 

Were it proper for me to pause in my narrative for the pur* 
pose of moral reflection, how naturally would the destitute con* 
dition of the criminal, as instanced in the case of John Hurdis, 
present itself for comment! Perhaps the greatest penalty which 
vice ever suffers is its isolation — its isolation from friends and 
fellowship — from warm trust, from yielding confidence. Its 
only resources are in the mutual interests of other and perhaps 
greater criminals, and what is there in life so unstable as the 
interests of the vicious ? How they fluctuate with the approach 
of danger, or the division of the spoil, or the drunkenness of 
heart and habit which their very destitution in all social respects 
must necessarily originate! When John Hurdis separated 
from his late colleague, who had taught him that they were no 
longer bound to each other by mutual necessities, he felt as if 
the last stay, in the moment of extremity, was suddenly taken 
from him. A sickness of soul came over him, and that despair 
of the spirit which the falling wretch endures in the brief in¬ 
stant when, catching at the impending limb, he finds it yielding 
the moment that his hold is sure upon it, and, in its decay, be¬ 
traying utterly the last fond hope which had promised him 
security and life. 

But, enough of this: my journey is begun. I entered a 
steamboat one fair morning, and, with promising auspices, so 
far as our voyage is considered, we went forward swimmingly 
enough. But our boat was an old one — a wretched hulk, which, 
having worked mt its term of responsible service in the Missis 



AMONG THE ENEMY. 


801 


sippi, had been sent round to Mobile, at the instance of cupidity, 
to beguile unwitting passengers like myself to their ruin. She 
was a piece of patchwork throughout, owned by a professional 
gambler, a little Israelite, who took the command without know¬ 
ing anything about it, and, by dint of good fortune, carried us 
safely to our journey’s end. Not that we had not some little 
stoppages and troubles by the way. Some portion of the 
machinery got out of order, and we landed at Demopolis. built 
a fire, erected a sort of forge, and in the space of half a day and 
night repaired the accident. This incident would not be worth 
relating, but that it exhibits the readiness with which our wild¬ 
est and least scientific people can find remedies for disasters 
which would seem to call for great skill and most extensive 
preparations. 

On the eleventh day we reached Columbus; but, in the mean¬ 
time, practising my new resolves, I made an acquaintance on 
board the boat. This was an old gentleman, a puritan of .the 
bluest complexion, whom nobody would have suspected of being 
a rogue. Setting out to seek for and meet with none but rogues, 
he yet nearly deceived me by his sanctity ; and had I not main¬ 
tained my watchfulness a little longer than I deemed necessary 
myself, I should have taken it for granted that he was a saint 
of the most accepted order, and, if I had not committed my se¬ 
cret to his keeping, I should at least have so far involved its 
importance as to make my labor unavailing. Fortunately, as I 
said, having put on the dress common to the gamblers of the 
great Mississippi valley, as much of their easy impudence of de¬ 
meanor as I could readily assume, I succeeded as effectually in 
convincing my puritan that I was a rogue, as he did in persua¬ 
ding me at the beginning that he was an honest man. It was 
my good fortune to find out his secret first, and to keep my own. 
It so happened that there were several passengers, like myself, 
bound for Columbus, on the Tombeckbe, to which place oiu 
boat was destined. As customary at that time, we had no 
sooner got fairly under way, before cards were produced, and 
one fellow, whose lungs and audacity were greater than the 
rest, was heard throughout the cabin, calling upon all persons, 
who were disposed to “ take a hand,” to come forward. With 
my new policy in view, I was one of the first to answer this 


302 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


challenge. 1 had provided myself in Mobile with several packs, 
and, taking a couple of them in hand, I went forward to the 
table, which meanwhile had been drawn out in the cabin, and 
coolly surveyed my companions. Our puritan came forward at 
the same moment, and in the gravest terms and tones protested 
against our playing. 

“ My young friends,” he cried, “ let me beg you not to en¬ 
gage in this wicked amusement. Cards are — as it has been 
often and well said — cards are the prayer-books of the devil. 
It is by these that he wins souls daily to his gloomy kingdom. 
Night and day he is busy in these arts to entrap the unwary, 
whom he blinds and beguiles, until, when they open their eyes 
at last, they open them in dwellings of damnation. Oh, my 
dear children, do not venture to follow him so far! Cast the 
temptation from you—defy the tempter; and, in place of these 
dangerous instruments of sin, hearken, I pray you, to the goodly 
outpourings of a divine spirit. If you will but suffer me to 
choose for you a text from this blessed volume—” 

Here he took a small pocket-bible from his bosom, and was 
about to turn the leaves, when a cry from all around me silenced 
him in his homily, which promised to be sufficiently unctuous 
and edifying: — 

“No text, no text!” was the general voice; “none of the 
parson, none of the parson!” 

“ Nay, my beloved children—” the preacher began, but a 
tall, good-humored looking fellow — a Georgian, with the full 
face, lively eyes, and clear skin, of that state—came up to him, 
and laid his broad hand over his mouth. 

“ Shut up, parson, it’s no use. You can’t be heard now, for 
you see it’s only civility to let the devil have the floor, seeing 
he was up first. If, now, you had been quick enough with 
your prayer-book, and got the whip-hand of him, d—n my eyes, 
but you should have sung out your song to the end of the 
verses; but you’ve been slow, parson—you’ve been sleeping at 
your stand, and the deer’s got round you. You’ll get smoked 
by the old one, yourself, if you don’t mind, for neglecting your 
duty.” 

“ Peace, vain young man !—” 

He was about to begin a furious denunciation, but was ab 


AMONG THE ENEMY. 


303 


lowed to proceed no further. The clamor was unanimous around 
him; and one tall fellow, somewhat dandyishly accoutred, like 
myself, coming forward, made a show of seizing upon the ex- 
liorter. Here I interposed. 

“No violence, gentlemen; it’s enough that we have silenced 
the man — let him not be hurt.” 

“ Ay, if he will keep quiet,” said the fellow, still threatening. 

“ Oh, quiet or not,” said the Georgian, “ we mustn’t hurt the 
parson. ’Dang it, he shan’t be hurt! I’ll stand up for him. 
Parson, I’ll stand up for you; but, by the hokey, old black, you 
must keep your oven close!” 

I joined in promising that he would he quiet, and offer no 
further interruption; and he so far seemed to warrant our assu¬ 
rance as, without promising himself, to take a seat, after a few 
half-suppressed groans, on a bench near the table on which we 
were about to play. I was first struck with suspicion of the 
fellow by this fact. If the matter were so painful to his spirit, 
why did he linger in our neighborhood when there were so 
many parts of the boat to which he might have retreated ? The 
suspicion grew stronger when I found him, after a little while, 
as watchfully attentive to the progress of the game as any of 
the players. 

Favorably impressed with the frankness of the Georgian, I 
proposed that we should play against the other two persons 
who were prepared to sit down to the table, and my offer was 
closed with instantly. We bet, on each hand, on the highest 
trump, and on the game with each of our opponents, a dollar 
being the amount of each bet, so that we had a good many dol¬ 
lars staked on the general result of the game. I know that I 
lost nine dollars before the cards had been thrice dealt. I now 
proceeded to try some of the tricks which I had seen others 
perform, and in particular that in which the dealer, by a pecu¬ 
liar mode of shuffling, divides the trumps between his partner 
and himself. My object was, to fix the attention of one of my 
opponents, whom I suspected from the first to be no better than 
he should be, simply because he wore a habit not unlike my 
own, and was covered with trinkets in the same manner. But 
I lacked experience : there was still a trick wanting, which no 
sleight-of-hand of mine could remedy. Though I shuffled the 


804 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


cards as I had seen them shuffled, by drawing them alternately 
from top to bottom together, I found neither mine nor my part¬ 
ner’s hand any better than before; and looking up, with some 
affected chagrin in my countenance, I caught sight of what 
seemed to he an understanding smile between the opponent in 
question and the parson, who, sitting a little on one side of me, 
was able to look, if he desired it, into my hand. This discov¬ 
ery— as I thought it — gave me no little pleasure. I was re¬ 
solved to test it, and ascertain how far I was correct in my sus¬ 
picions. I flattered myself that I was in a fair way to fall upon 
the clue which might conduct me into the very midst of the 
gamblers, who are all supposed to be connected more or less on 
the western waters, and yield me possession of their secrets. 
Accordingly, I displayed certain of my cards ostentatiously be¬ 
fore the eyes of the preacher, and had occasion to observe, an 
instant after, that the play of my opponent seemed to be regu¬ 
lated by a certain knowledge of my hand. He finessed con¬ 
stantly upon my lead, and with an adroitness which compelled 
the continual expression of wonder and dissatisfaction from the 
lips of my partner. I was satisfied, so far, with the result of 
my experiment, and began to think of pausing before I pro¬ 
ceeded further; when my Georgian dashed down his cards as 
the game was ended against us, and cried out to me, with a 
countenance which, though flushed, was yet full of most excel¬ 
lent feeling: — 

“Look you, stranger, suppose we change. We don’t seem 
to have luck together, and there’s no fun in being all the time 
on the losing side. The bad luck may be with me, or it may 
be with you, I don’t say, but it can do no harm to shift it to 
other shoulders, whoever has it. I’ve been diddled out of 
twenty-six hard dollars in mighty short order.” 

“Diddled!” exclaimed my brother dandy, with an air of 
ineffable heroism, turning to my partner. Without discom¬ 
posure the other replied :— 

“ I don’t mean any harm when I say diddled, stranger, so 
don’t be uneasy. I call it diddling when I lose my money, 
fight as hard for it as I can. That is the worst sort of diddling 
I know.” 

The other looked fierce for a moment, but he probably soon 


AMONG THE ENEMY. 


305 


discovered that the Georgian had replied without heeding his 
air of valor, and there was something about his composed man¬ 
ner which rendered it at least a doubtful point whether anything 
in the shape of an insult would not set his bulky frame into 
overpowering exercise. The disposition to bully, however 
slightly it was suffered to appear, added another item to my 
suspicions of the character before me. The proposition of my 
partner to change places with one of the other two, produced a 
different suggestion from one of them, which seemed to please 
us all. It was that we should play vingt-un. 

“ Every man fights on his own hook in that, and his bad luck, 
if he has any, hurts nobody but himself.” 

I had begun to reproach myself with a course which, how¬ 
ever useful in forwarding my own objects, had evidently con¬ 
tributed to the loss by my partner of his money. If free to 
throw away my own, I had no right to try experiments on his 
purse, and I readily gave my assent to the proposition. Our 
bets were more moderate than before, but I soon found the 
game a losing one still. The preacher still sat at my elbow, 
and my brother dandy was the banker; and in more than one 
instance when I have stood on “ twenty” he has drawn from 
the pack, though having .“eighteen” and “nineteen,”—upon 
which good players will always be content, unless assured that 
better hands are in the possession of their opponents, when, by 
“drawing,” they can not lose. This knowledge could only be 
received from our devoted preacher, and when I ceased to play 
— which, through sheer weariness I did—I did so with the 
most thorough persuasion, that the two were in correspondence 
—they were birds of the same brood. 

Moody and thoughtful, for I was now persuaded that my own 
more important game was beginning to open before me, I went 
to the stern of the boat, and seated myself upon one of the 
bulks, giving way to the bitter musings of which my mind was 
sufficiently full. While I sat thus, I was startled on a sudden 
to find the preacher beside me. 

“Ah, my young friend, I have watched you during your 
sinful play, against which I warned you, with a painful sort of 
curiosity. Did I not counsel you against those devilish instru¬ 
ments—you scorned my counsel, and what has been your for- 


30(5 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


tune. You have lost money, my son, money—a goodly sum, 
which might have blessed the poor widow, and the portionless 
orphan — which might have sent the blessings of the word into 
strange lands among the benighted heathen — which might 
have helped on in his labors some wayfaring teacher of the 
word—which might be most needful to yourself, my son; which, 
indeed, I see it in your looks—which you could very ill spare 
for such purposes, and which even now it is your bitter suffering 
that you have lost.” 

Admiring the hypocrisy of the old reprobate, I was yet, in 
obedience to my policy, prepared to respect it. I availed my¬ 
self of his own suggestion, and thus answered him. 

“You speak truly, sir; I bitterly regret having lost my 
money, which, as you say, I could ill spare, and which it has 
nearly emptied my pockets to have lost. But suppose I had 
been fortunate — if I was punished by my losses for having 
played, he who won, I suppose, is punished by his winnings for 
the same offence. How does your reason answer when it cuts 
both ways 

“ Even as a two-edged sword it doth, my friend; though in 
the blindness of earth you may not so readily see or believe it. 
Truly may it be said that you are both equally punished by 
your fortunes. You suffer from your losses — who shall say 
that he will suffer less from his gains. Will it not encourage 
him in his career of sin — will it not promote his licentiousness 
— his indulgence of many vices which will bring him to disease, 
want, and possibly — which Heaven avert—to an untimely end. 
Verily, my friend, I do think him even more unfortunate than 
thyself; for, of a truth, it may be said, that the right use of 
money is the most difficult and dangerous of all; and few ever 
use it rightly but such as gain it through great toil, or have the 
divine instinct of Heaven, which is wisdom, to employ it to its 
rightful purposes.” 

Excellent hypocrite ! How admirably did he preach ? How 
adroitly did he escape what had otherwise been his dilemma. 
He almost deceived me a second time. 

“ In your heart, now, my friend, you bitterly repent that you 
heeded not my counsel.” 


AMONG THE ENEMY. 807 

“Not a whit!” was my reply; “ if I were sure I could win. 
I would stick by the card table for ever.” 

“ What! so profligate and so young. Oh ! my friend, think 
upon your end — think of eternity.” 

“ Rather let me think of my beginning, reverend sir, if you 
please. The business of time requires present attention, and 
to a man that is starving your talk of future provision is a mere 
mockery. Give me to know how I am to get the bread of life 
in this life before you talk to me of bread for the next.” 

“ How should you get it, my friend, but by painstaking ana 
labor, and worthy conduct. The world esteems not those who 
play at cards —” 

“ And I esteem not the world. What matters it to me, my 
good sir, what are the opinions of those to whom I am unknown, 
and for whom I care nothing. Give me but money enough, and 
I will make them love me, and honor me, and force truth and 
honesty into all shapes, that they may not offend my principles 
or practice.” 

“ But, my son, you would not surely forget the laws of hon¬ 
esty in the acquisition of wealth ?” 

This was said inquisitively, and with a prying glance of the 
eye, which sufficiently betokened the deep interest which the 
hypocrite felt in my answer. But that I was now persuaded of 
his hypocrisy, I should have never avowed myself so boldly. 

“ What are they ? what are these laws of honesty of which 
you speak ? I can not, all at once, say that I know them.” 

“ Not know them !” 

“No!” 

“Well,” he continued, “to say truth, they are rather fre¬ 
quently revoked among mankind, and have others wholly opposite 
in character substituted in their place; but you can not mistake 
me, my young friend—you know that there are such laws.” 

“ Ay, laws for me—for the poor—to crush the weak—made 
by the strong for their own protection—for the protection of 
the wealth of the cunning. These are not laws calculated to 
win the respect or regard of the destitute — of those who are 
desperate enough, if they did not lack the strength, to pull 
down society with a fearless hand, though perhaps, they pulled 
it in ruin upon themselves.” 


308 


RICHARD HURDI3. 


“ But you, my friend, you are not thus desperate—this is not 
your situation.” 

“ What! you would extort a confession from me, first of my 
poverty, then of my desperation — you would drag me to the 
county court, would you, that you might have the proud satis¬ 
faction of exhorting the criminal in his last moments, in the 
presence of twenty thousand admiring fellow-creatures, who 
come to see a brother launched out of life and into hell. This 
is your practice and creed is it V* 

“ No, my friend,” he replied, in a lower tone of voice, which 
was, perhaps, intended to restrain the emphatic utterance of 
mine. “Know me better, my friend — I would save you— 
such is my heart — from so dreadful a situation — yes, I would 
even defeat the purposes of justice, though I felt persuaded you 
would sin again in the same fashion. Be not rash — be not 
hasty in your judgment of me, my friend. I like you, and will 
say something to you which you will, perhaps, be pleased to 
hear. But not now — one of these vicious reprobates ap¬ 
proaches us, and what I say must be kept only for your own 
ears. To-night, perhaps — to-night.” 

He left me with an uplifted finger, and a look — such a look 
as Satan may be supposed to have fixed on Adam in Paradise 


DEEPER IN THE PLOT. 


309 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

DEEPER IN THE PLOT. 

“ Twill be a bargain and sale, 

I see, by their close working of their heads, 

And running them together so in counsel.”—B en Jonson. 

The old hypocrite sought me out again that night. So far, 
it appears that my part had been acted with tolerable success. 
My impetuosity, which had been feigned, of course, and the 
vehemence with which I denounced mankind in declaring my 
own destitution, were natural enough to a youth who had lost 
his money, and had no other resources; and I was marked out 
by the tempter as one so utterly hopeless of the world’s favors, 
as to be utterly heedless of its regards. Of such, it is well- 
known, the best materials for villany are usually compounded, 
and our puritan, at a glance, seems to have singled me out as 
his own. We had stopped to repair some accident to the 
machinery, and while the passengers were generally making 
merry on land, I strolled into the woods that immediately bor¬ 
dered upon the river, taking care that my reverend fox, whose 
eye I well knew was upon me, should see the course I took. I 
was also careful not to move so rapidly as to make it a difficult 
work to overtake me. As I conjectured would be the case, he 
followed and found me out. It was night, but the stars were 
bright enough, and the fires which had been kindled by the 
boat-hands, gave sufficient light for all ordinary objects of sight. 
I sat down upon the bluff of the river, screened entirely by the 
overhanging branches which sometimes almost met across the 
stream, where it was narrow, from the opposite banks. I had 
not been here many minutes before the tempter was beside me. 

“You are sad, my friend—your losses trouble you. But 
distrust not Providence, which takes care of us all, though. 


310 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


perhaps, we see not the hand that feeds us, and fancy all the 
while that it is our own. You will be provided when you least 
look for it; and to convince you of the truth of what I say, let 
me tell you that it is not in goodly counsel alone that I would 
serve you, I will help you in other matters — I can help you to 
the means of life — nay, of wealth. Ha! do you start? Do 
you wonder at what I say? Wonder not—be not surprised — 
be not rash—refuse not your belief, for of a truth, and by the 
blessing of God, will I do for you all that I promise, if so be 
that I can find you pliant and willing to strive for the goodly 
benefits which I shall put before you.” 

“ What! you would make me a preacher, would you ? You 
would have me increase the host of solemn beggars that infest 
the country with stolen or silly exhortations, stuffed with abused 
words, and full of oaths and blasphemy. But you are mistaken 
in your man. I would sooner rob a fellow on the highway, 
than pilfer from his pockets while I preach. None of your 
long talks for me — tell me now of some bold plan for taking 
Mexico, which, one day or other, the southwest will have to 
take, and I am your man. I care not how bold your scheme — 
there is no one so perfectly indifferent to the danger as he who 
can not suffer the loss of a single sixpence by rope or bullet.” 

“ You do not say, my friend, that you would willingly do 
such violence as this you speak of, for the lucre of gain. Sure¬ 
ly? you would not willingly slay your brother for the sake of 
his gold ?” 

“ Ask me no questions, reverend sir,” I replied, moodily. “ I 
am not in the humor to be catechized.” 

“ And yet, my friend,” he continued, “ I much fear me that 
your conscience is scarcely what it should be. This was my 
surmise to-day, as I beheld you with those unholy cards in your 
hands. Did I not see you, while giving them that sort of dis¬ 
tribution which is sinfully styled shuffling—did I not see you 
practising an art which is commonly held to be unfair among 
men of play ? Ha ! my son — am I not right ? have I not smit¬ 
ten you under the fifth rib ?” 

“ And what should you, a preacher of the gospel, as you call 
yourself, what should you know about shuffling ?” 

“ Preacher of the gospel I am, my friend,” was his cool reply. 


DEEPER IN THE PLOT. 


311 


“ I am an expounder of the Holy Scriptures, though it may be 
an unworthy one. I have my license from the Alabama confe¬ 
rence, for the year 18—, which, at a convenient season, I am 
not unwilling that ^ou should see. Yet, though I ain a preach¬ 
er of the blessed word, I have not, and to my shame be it spo¬ 
ken, been always thus. In my youth, I am sad to say, I was 
much given to carnal indulgence, and many were the evil prac¬ 
tices of my body, and many the evil devices of my heart. In 
this time of my ignorance and sin, I was a great lover of these 
deadly instruments of evil; and, among my fellows, I was ac¬ 
counted a proficient, able to teach in all the arts of play. It 
was thus that I acquired the knowledge—knowledge which 
hurts — to see when thou designedst a trick in which thou didst 
yet fail, to win the money of thy fellow. I will show thee that 
trick, my friend, that thou mayst know I tell thee nothing but 
the truth.” 

Here was a proposition from a parson. I closed with him 
instantly. 

“You will do me a great service, I assure you.” 

“ But, my friend, you would not make use of thy knowledge 
to despoil thy fellow of his money ?” 

“ Would I not ? For what else would I know the art ?” 

“ But, if I could teach thee other and greater arts than these 
— if I could show thee how to make thy brother’s purse thine 
own, at once, and without the toil of doling it out dollar by dol¬ 
lar— I fear me, my friend, that thou wouldst apply this knowl¬ 
edge also to purposes of evil — that thou wouldst not regard the 
sinfulness of such performances, in the strong desire of lucre 
which I see is in thy heart — that thou wouldst seek an early 
chance to put in practice the information which I give thee.” 

“ And wherefore give it me, then 1 Of a certainty I would 
employ it, as you see, to increase my means of life.” 

“ Alas! my friend, but thy necessity must be great, else 
would I look upon thee with misgivings and much horror.” 

“ Great, indeed ! I tell you, reverend sir, but that for your 
coming, it is ten to one I had sent a bullet through my own 
head, or buried myself in the waters of the Bigby.” 

“ Thou surely didst not meditate an act so heinous.” 

“ Look here!” and I showed him my pistol as I spoke. He 


312 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


coolly took it into his hands, threw up the pan, and, with his 
finger, assured himself that it was primed. His tone was al¬ 
tered instantly. He dropped the drawling manner of the ex¬ 
horting; and, though his conversation was "Still sprinkled with 
the canting slang of the itinerant preacher, which long use had 
probably made habitual, yet he evidently ceased to think it ne¬ 
cessary to play the hypocrite with me any longer. 

“ You are too bold a fellow,” he said, “ to throw away your 
life in such a manner, and that, too, because of the want of mon¬ 
ey. You shall have money — as much as you wish of it; and, 
I take it, you would infinitely prefer shooting him who has it 
rather than yourself—” 

“Nay, nay, not that neither, reverend sir. There’s some 
danger of being hung for such a matter.” 

“ Not if you have money. You forget, my friend, your own 
principles. You said, and said truly, that money was the power 
which made virtue and opinion take all shapes among men; 
and, when this is the case, justice becomes equally accommoda¬ 
ting. You shall have this money — you shall compel this opin¬ 
ion as you please, so that you may do what you please, and be 
safe—only let me know that you wish this knowledge.” 

I grasped his hand violently. 

“ Ask the wretch at the gallows if he wishes life, and the 
question is no less idle than that which you put to me.” 

“ Come farther back from the river — some of these boatmen 
may be pulling about; and such matters as I have to reveal, 
need no bright blaze like that which gleams upon us from yon 
forge. That wood looks dismal enough behind us—let us go 
there.” 

Thither we went; and, having buried ourselves sufficiently 
among the thick undergrowth to be free of any danger of dis¬ 
covery or interruption, he began the narrative which follows; 
and which, together with much additional but unnecessary mat¬ 
ter, I have abridged to my own limits :— 

“ There was a boy,” said he, “ a poor boy of West Tennessee, 
who knew no parents, and had no friends — who worked for his 
bread and education, such as it was, at the same moment—and, 
in spite of all his labors, found, at the end of every year, after 


DEEPER IN THE PLOT. 


313 


casting up his accounts, that he had gained during its passage 
many more kicks than coppers.” 

“No uncommon fortune in a country like ours.” 

“ So he thought it,” continued the parson, availing himself of 
my interruption — “so he thought it. He wasted no time and 
feeling in idle regrets of a condition which he found was rather 
more general than grateful to mankind, and one day he asked 
himself how many years he was willing to expend in trying to 
get a living in an honest way ?” 

“Well, a reasonable question. What answer?” 

“A reasonable one—like the question. Life is short even 
if we have money, said he to himself; but we have no life at all 
without it. Following a plough gives me none—I must follow 
something else.” 

“Well?” 

“ He resolved on being honest no longer.” 

“ Indeed! But how could he put his resolution into effect in 
a country like ours, where we are inundated with so much pro¬ 
fessional virtue ?” 

“ He put on a professional cloak.” 

“ Excellent.” 

“ But, though commencing a new, and, as it proved, a profit¬ 
able business, he was not so selfish as to desire a monopoly of 
it; on the contrary, a little reflection suggested to him a grand 
idea, which was evolved by the very natural reflection which 
you made just now.” 

“ What was that ?” 

“ Simply, that his condition was not that of an individual, but 
of thousands.” 

“ Well, that is a truism. What could he make of that ?” 

“ A brotherhood.” 

“How?” 

“ He conceived that, if there were thousands in his condition, 
there were thousands governed by his feelings and opinions. 
We all have a family likeness in our hearts, however disguised 
by habits, manners, education ; but when habits, manners, edu¬ 
cation, are agreed, and to these is added a prevailing necessity, 
then the likeness becomes identity, and the boy who, on reach¬ 
ing manhood, resolved to be no longer despicably honest, felt 

H 


314 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


assured that his resolve could be made the resolves of all who 
are governed by his necessities. 

“A natural reflection enough — none more so.” 

“ Accordingly, his chief labor was that of founding an order 
— a brotherhood of those who have learned to see, in the prin¬ 
ciples which ostensibly govern society, a nice system of cob¬ 
webs, set with a double object, as snares to catch and enslave 
the feeble and confiding, and defences for the protection of the 
more cunning reptiles that sit in the centre, and prey at ease 
upon the marrow and fat of the toiling insects they entangle.” 

“ Such is certainly a true picture of our social condition. 
Man is the prey of man—the weak of the strong — the unwary 
of the cunning. The more black, the more bloated, the spider, 
the closer his web, and the greater the number and variety of 
victims. He sits at ease, and they plunge incontinently into 
his snare.” 

Such were some of the reflections with which I regaled my 
companion. He proceeded with increasing earnestness. 

“ He travelled through all the slave states making proselytes 
to his doctrine. With the cassock of a sanctified profession, 
which we no more dare assail now than we did four hundred 
years ago, he made his way not only at little or no expense, 
but with great profit. On all hands he found friends and fol¬ 
lowers— men ready to do his bidding — to follow him in all 
risks—to undertake all sorts of offences, and in every respect 
to be the instruments of his will, as docile and dependent as 
those of any Oriental despot known in story. His followers 
soon grew numerous, and having them scattered through all the 
slave states, and some of the free, he could enumerate more than 
fifteen hundred men ready at his summons and sworn to his al¬ 
legiance.” 

I was positively astounded. 

“ But you are not serious V* 

“ As much so as at a camp-meeting. There is not an atom 
of the best certified texts of scripture more true than what I 
toll you.” 

“What! fifteen hundred men—fifteen hundred in these 
southern states professing roguery !” 

“Nay, not professing roguery ; there you are harsh in your 


DEEPER IN THE PLOT. 


315 


epitliet. Professing religion, law, physic, planting, shopkeep¬ 
ing— anything, everything, hut roguery. They practise 
roguery, and roguery of all kinds, I grant you, but no profes¬ 
sions could be more immaculate than theirs.” 

“ Is it possible V* My wonder could not be concealed, but I 
contrived to mingle in some delight with my tones of astonish¬ 
ment, and my words were cautiously adapted to second my af¬ 
fectation of delight. 

“ Yes,” he continued, “ by the overruling influence of this 
boy, as I may call him, though now a full-grown man, such has 
become the spread of his principles, and such is the power 
which he wields. Yet, in all his labors, mark me, he himself 
commits no act of injustice with his own hand. He manages, 
he directs others; he sets the spring in motion, and counsels 
the achievement, yet no blow is struck by his hand. He is 
above the petty details of his own plans, and leaves to other 
and minor spirits the task of executing the little offices by 
which the grand design is carried out, and the work effected.” 

“ Why, this man is a genius.” 

My unaffected expression of admiration warmed my compan¬ 
ion, and he soon convinced me not only that he had all the 
while spoken of himself, but that he was remarkably sensitive 
on the subject of his own greatness. Discovering this weakness, 
I plied him by oblique flatteries of the wonderful person whom 
he had described to me, and he became seemingly almost en¬ 
tirely unreserved in his communications. He related at large 
the history of the clan—the Mystic Confederacy, as it was 
termed — as it has already been partially narrated to the read¬ 
er ; and my horror and wonder were alike increased at every 
step in his progress. I could no longer doubt that the fellows 
who murdered William Carrington were a portion of the same 
lawless fraternity; and while the developments of my new ac¬ 
quaintance gave me fresh hope of being soon able to encounter 
with those murderers, they opened my eyes to a greater field of 
danger and difficulties than had appeared to them before. But 
I did not suffer myself to indulge in apprehensive musings, and 
pressed him for an increase of knowledge; taking care, at my 
each solicitation, to lard my inquiries thick with oily eulogies 
upon the great genius who had planned, and so far executed, 


316 


RICHARD HURDJS. 


“ How has this wonderful man contrived to evade detection, 
or suspicion at least ? It is not easy to have a secret kept, 
which is so numerously confided.” 

“ That is one of the beauties of his scheme, that he confides 
little or nothing which affects himself, and he secures the 
alliance and obedience of those only who have secrets of their 
own much more detrimental to them if made public than could 
be any which they have of his. His art consisted simply in 
seeking out those who had secrets of a dangerous nature. In 
finding these he found followers. But, though he has not al¬ 
ways escaped suspicion — he has been able always to defy it. 
Societies have been formed, schemes laid, companies raised, 
and juries prompted, to catch him in the act, but all in vain. 
It is not easy to entrap a man who has an emissary in every 
section of the country. The most active secretaries of the so¬ 
cieties were his creatures—the schemes have been reported 
him as soon as laid, and one of his own right-hand men has 
more than once been an officer of the company sworn to keep 
watch over him in secret.” 

“ Wonderful man ! — and what does he design with all this 
power? To rob merely — to procure money from travellers 
upon the highway — would not seem to call for such an exten¬ 
sive association.” 

“Perhaps not!—but lie has other purposes; and the time 
will come, I doubt not, when liis performances will, in no re¬ 
spect, fall short of the power which he will employ to effect 
them. When I tell you of such a man, you see at once that he 
is no common robber. Why should he confine himself to the 
deeds of one — be assured he will not. You will see — you will 
hear yet of his performances, and I tell you they will be such 
that the country will ring with them again.” 

“He must be a man of great ambition — he should be, to 
correspond with the genius which he evidently has for great 
achievements. I should like to know — by my soul, but I could 
love such a man as that.” 

“You shall know him in season—he is not unwilling to be 
known where he himself knows the seeker, but—” 

He paused, and I determined upon giving my hypocrisy a 
crowning virtue, if possible, by utterly overmastering his. I 


DEEPER IN THE PLOT. 


317 


put my hand upon his shoulder suddenly, and looked him in 
the face, saying deliberately at the same time : — 

“ You are the man himself—I’ll swear it.” 

“How!” he exclaimed, in some alarm; and I could see that 
he fumbled in his bosom as if for a weapon. “ How ! you mean 
not to betray me 1” 

“Betray you, no. I honor you—I love you. You have 
opened a road to me — you have given me light. An hour ago 
and I was the most hopeless, benighted wretch under heaven 
— without money, without the means of getting it, and fully 
resolved on putting a bullet through my head. You have saved 
my life—you have saved me.” 

He seized my hand with warmth. 

“ I will be the making of you,” he replied. “ I have the 
whole southwest in a string, and have only to pull it to secure 
a golden draught. You shall be with me at the pulling.” 

What more he said is unnecessary to my narrative, though 
he thought it all important to his. In brief, he told me that he 
had concocted his present schemes for a space of more than 
twenty years — from the time that he was fifteen years of age, 
and he was now full thirty-five; showing by this, a commenda¬ 
ble perseverance of purpose, which, in a good work is seldom 
shown, and which, in a good work must have insured to any 
individual a most triumphant greatness. We did not separate 
that night until he had sworn me a member of the “ Mystic 
Confederacy,” and given me a dozen signs by which to know 
my brethren, make myself known, send tidings and command 
assistance — acquisitions which I shuddered to possess, and the 
consequences of which, I well knew, would task all my skill 
and resolution to escape and evade. 


818 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

THE TOO CONSCIENTIOUS BROTHER. 

“I protest, 

Maugre thy strength, youth, place and eminence, 

Despight thy victor sword, and fire new fortune, 

Thy valor and thy heart—thou art a traitor .”—King Lear. 

My thoughts, in my berth that night, were oppressive enough. 
I had involved myself in the meshes of a formidable conspiracy, 
and was now liable to all its dangers. It mattered not to the 
public how pure were my real purposes, so long as the knowl¬ 
edge of them was confined only to myself. The consciousness 
of virtue may be a sufficient strengthener of one’s resolve, but 
I doubt whether it most usually produces a perfect feeling of 
mental quiet. I know all was turmoil in my brain that night. 
I tossed and tumbled, and could not sleep. Thought was busy, 
as, indeed she had need be. I had now full occasion for the 
exercise of all my wits. To entrap the black and bloated spi¬ 
ders in their own web was now my task—to escape from it 
myself, my difficulty. But I had sworn to avenge William 
Carrington; and now, with a less selfish feeling, I registered 
another oath in heaven. 

In my next conversation with the parson, who gave me, as 
his name, Clement Foster, though I doubt not — indeed I after¬ 
ward discovered—that he had twenty other names; I endeav¬ 
ored, with all my art, to find out if he knew anything of Web 
ber and his associates. To do this without provoking suspicion, 
was a task requiring the utmost caution. To a certain extent 
I succeeded. I found that Webber was one of his men, but I 
also discovered that he let me know nothing in particular — 
nothing, the development of which might materially affect his 
future plans, or lbad to the discovery of his past projects. I 


THE TOO CONSCIENTIOUS BROTHER. 319 

was evidently regarded as one, who, however well estimated, 
was yet to undergo those trials which always precede the confi¬ 
dence of the wicked. I was yet required to commit myself, be¬ 
fore I could be recognised in a fellowship of risk and profits 
with them. Foster gave me to know, that there was a test to 
which I would be subjected—a test depending on circumstan¬ 
ces—not arbitrary — and my full and entire admission to the 
fraternity, would depend on the manner in which I executed 
my task. 

“ You will have to take a mail-bag, or shoot an obstinate fel¬ 
low, who has more money than brains, through the head. Our 
tasks are all adapted to the particular characters of our men. 
Gentlemen bred, and of good education and fine feelings, will 
be required to do some bold action: our common rogues and 
underlings are made to run a negro from his master, or pick a 
pocket at a muster, or pass forged notes, or some small matter 
of that sort. You, however, will be subjected to no such mean 
performances. I will see to that.” 

Here was consolation with a vengeance! I felt my cheek 
burn, and my heart bound within me; but I was on the plank, 
and the stern necessity schooled me so, that I was able to con¬ 
ceal all my emotion. But I soon found that there were other 
tests for me, and that my friendly parson was not yet so satis¬ 
fied that my virtue was of the desirable complexion. My 
brother-dandy sought me out one day before we reached Co¬ 
lumbus : — 

“ I see,” said he, confidentially, “ that parson talking with 
you very frequently; and, as you seem to listen to him very 
respectfully, I think it only an act of friendship to put you on 
your guard against him. Between us, lie’s a great rascal, I’m 
more than certain. I know him to be a hypocrite; and while 
I was last in Orleans, there was a man advertised for passing 
forged notes, and the description given of the rogue answers to 
a letter the appearance of this fellow,” 

I thanked him for his kindness, but told him that I really 
thought the parson a very good man, and could not believe that 
he would be guilty of such an act as that ascribed to him. 

“ You’re mistaken,” said he; “ you’re only too confiding, and 
I’ll convince you, if you’ll only back me in what I do. Stand 


320 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


by me, and I’ll charge him with it before the captain; and, if 
so, we’ll have the reward. I’ll lay my life his pocket is full of 
forged bills at this very moment.” 

I answered him with some coolness, and more indifference: 

“ I’m no informer, sir, and do not agree with you in your 
ill opinion of the poor man. At least, I have seen nothing in 
his conduct, and witnessed nothing in his deportment, to war¬ 
rant me in forming any such suspicions. He may have forged 
notes or not, for me; I’ll not trouble him.” 

The fellow went off, no wise discomfited, and I heard noth¬ 
ing more of his accusation. That night I related the circum¬ 
stance to Foster, who smiled without surprise, and then said to 
me in reply — 

“ You see how well our agents work for us. Haller [that 
was the dandy’s name] is one of our men. He knew from me of 
what we had spoken, and proposed to try you. It is no small 
pleasure to find you so faithful to your engagements.” 

In this way, and by the practice of the most unrelaxing cun¬ 
ning, I fully persuaded Foster of my integrity — if I may use 
that word in such relation. Hour after hour gave me new rev¬ 
elations touching the grand fraternity — the “Mystic Brother¬ 
hood”— into the bosom of which I was now to be received; 
and of the doings and the capacities of which Foster spoke at 
large and with all the zest of the truest paternity. After re¬ 
peated conferences had seemed to assure him of my fidelity, he 
proceeded to reveal a matter which, in the end, proved of more 
importance to my pursuit than all the rest of his revelations. 

“We have quarterly and occasional meetings of our choice 
spirits, who are few in number, and one of these meetings is at 
hand. We meet in the neighborhood of the Sipsy swamp, on 
the road from Columbus to Tuscaloosa, where we have a famous 
hiding-place, which has heard, and kept too, many a pretty 
secret. We have a conference to which twenty or more will 
be admitted, who will report their proceedings in western Ala¬ 
bama. There will be several new members, like yourself, who 
are yet in their noviciate; but none, I am persuaded, who will 
go through their trial half so well as yourself.” 

“ What! the stopping the mail, or shooting the traveller ?” 

“ Yes—’tis that I mean. You will do your duty, I doubt not. 


THE TOO CONSCIENTIOUS BROTHER. 


321 


There is another business which we have on hand, which is of 
some importance to our interests. It is hinted that one of our 
leading confederates—a fine young fellow, who committed an 
error, and joined us in consequence a year ago — is about to 
play the traitor, or at least fly the track.” 

“Ah, indeed! and how do you punish such an offence?” 

“ How, but by death ? Our very existence as a society, and 
safety as men, depend upon the severity which we visit upon 
the head of the traitor. He must die—that is, if the offence be 
proved against him.” 

“ What! you give him a trial, then V* 

“ Yes, but not by jury : no such folly for us ! We put on the 
track of the offender some two or three of our most trusty con¬ 
federates, who take note of all his actions, and are empowered 
with authority to put the law in force without further reference 
to us. I will try and get you upon this commission, as your 
first trial before we invest you with our orders. Haller will 
most probably be your associate in this business. He brings 
the report of the suspected treason, and it is our custom to em¬ 
ploy in such a business those persons who have the clue already 
in their hands. Haller has some prejudice against Eberly; 
there have been words between them, and Eberly, who is a fel¬ 
low of high spirit, got the better of him, and treats him with 
some contempt.” 

“ Will there not be some danger of Haller’s abusing the trust 
you give him, then, and making its powers subservient to his 
feelings of personal hostility ?” 

“ Possibly; but Haller knows our penalty for that offence, 
and will scarcely venture to incur it. Besides, I fear there is 
some ground for his charges: I have heard some matters about 
Eberly myself which were suspicious.” 

“Eberly !” said I, “ where did I hear that name before ? I 
have surely heard it somewhere.” 

“Not unlikely : I know several Eberlys in Georgia and Ala- 
abama; it’s not a very uncommon name, though still not a com¬ 
mon one.” 

The consciousness of the next instant made my cheek burn. 
I remembered hearing the name of Eberly uttered by one of 
the banditti, while I lay bound in the hovel of Matthew Web- 

14 * 


322 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


ber; and then it appeared to me in language which was dispar¬ 
aging. Things were beginning to fit themselves strangely to¬ 
gether before my eyes; and when the parson left me, to retire 
to his berth, I was soon lost in a wilderness of musing. 

We soon reached and landed at Columbus—a wild-looking 
and scattered settlement, at that time, of some thirty families, 
within a mile of the Tombeckbe. We proceeded boldly to the 
tavern — our parson leading the way; and never was prayer 
more earnest and seemingly unaffected than that which he put 
up at the supper-table that night. He paid amply for his bacon 
and greens by his eloquence. He tendered no other form of 
pay — nor, indeed, did any seem to be desired. 

The next morning it was arranged between us that we should 
all meet at a spot a little above the ford at Coal-Fire creek— 
a distance of some thirty miles from Columbus, and on the di¬ 
rect route to Tuscaloosa. But here a difficulty lay in my way 
which had been a source of annoyance to me for the three days 
past. I had no horse, and had declared to Foster my almost 
absolute want of money. To proceed on my mission, it was 
necessary to procure one, and, if possible, a good one ; and how 
to do this while Foster stayed, w r as a disquieting consideration. 
But he was too intent upon securing his new associate, and not 
less intent upon his old business, to suffer this to remain a diffi¬ 
culty long. 

“You must buy a horse in Columbus, Williams (that was the 
name I had set out with from Mobile); you can not get on with¬ 
out one. As you have no money, I must help you, and you can 
repay me after you have struck your first successful blow\ Here 
are a couple of hundred dollars—bills of the bank of Mobile— 
counterfeit, it is true, but good here as the bank itself. There’s 
an old fellow^ here—old General Cocke — that has several nags; 
you can possibly get one from him that will do you good ser¬ 
vice, and not cost you so much, neither. Go to him at once and 
get your creature: you’ll find me to-morrow noon at the creek, 
just as I tell you. Set up a psalm-tune, if you can, even as you 
reach the creek, and you’ll hear some psalmody in return that 
will do your heart good.” 

He left me, followed by Haller, and I took a short mode for 
getting rid of the counterfeit bills he gave me. I destroyed 


THE TOO CONSCIENTIOUS BROTHER. 


323 


them in my lire that night, and, taking the necessary sum from 
my own treasury, I proceeded to procure my horse, which I 
found no difficulty in doing, and at a moderate price, though 
General Cocke had Mone to sell. I bought from another person, 
whom I did not know. 

Being so far ready, I took a careful examination of my pistols, 
procured me an extra knife of large size in Columbus, and com¬ 
mending myself to Providence with a prayer mentally uttered, 
as earnest as any which I ever made either before or since, I 
set off for the place of meeting, which I reached about sunset. 
Though nothing of a psalm-singer, I yet endeavored to avail 
myself of the suggestion of Foster, and accordingly set up a 
monotonous stave, after the whining fashion of the methodists 
of that region; and was answered with a full burst of the same 
sort of melody, of unsurpassable volume, proving the lungs of 
the faithful whom I sought to be of the most undiseased com¬ 
plexion. I was immediately joined by Foster and three other 
persons, among whom I felt a spontaneous movement of pleas¬ 
ure in my bosom as I recognised the features of Matthew Web¬ 
ber. But it was the pleasure of the hunter, who, having bis 
rifle lifted, discovers the wolf at the entrance of the den. It 
relieved me from many apprehensions to find that Webber, 
though looking at me with some attention, did so without seem¬ 
ing to recognise me. This was an earnest of success in my pur¬ 
suit which cheered me not a little in my onward progress. 

We entered their hiding-place together, where, in a leafy 
cover that might have been used by innumerable tribes of bears 
and foxes before, we found our supper and a tolerable lodgment 
for the night. There we slept, though not till some hours had 
been spent in conversation touching a thousand plans of villany, 
which astounded me to hear, but to which I was compelled not 
only to give heed, but satisfaction. But little of their dialogue 
interested me in my pursuit. To some parts of it, however, I 
lent an ear of excited attention. Webber spoke of EberJy; 
and though I could not understand much of the matter he re¬ 
ferred to, yet there was an instinct in my mind that made me 
nervous while the discussion continued, and melancholy long 
after it was over. To me was the task to be assigned of pur* 
suing this young man, of spying into his conduct, and reporting 


324 


BICHARD HURDIS. 


and punishing his return to the paths of virtue. Not to do this 
work faithfully to those who sent me, was to incur his risk; and 
this was a position into which, with my eyes open, I had gone 
of my own head. 

It was no small addition to my annoyance, that, in prosecu¬ 
ting the search into Eberly’s conduct, I was ministering to the 
mean malice of Haller and the open hate of Matthew Webber. 
But there was no room for hesitation now. I was to go for¬ 
ward, or fall. My hope, as well as purpose, was for the best; 
my resolution to do nothing wrong. My task was to steer wide 
of injury to others, and of risk to myself—no easy task, with 
so many villains around me. A sentence or two of the dialogue 
which so interested me may be well enough repeated here. It 
will be supposed that what was said must have had the effect of 
lifting the destined youth in my consideration : it certainly 
placed him in a more favorable light than could well be claimed 
for one found in such a connection. 

“ He is become too melancholy for any business at all,” said 
Webber, “ and least of all for such a business as ours. Set him 
to watch for a traveller, and he plays with the leaves, twists 
the vines round his finger, writes in the sand, and sighs all the 
while as if his heart were breaking.” 

“ Why, he has suffered himself really to fall in love with the 
girl!” exclaimed Foster. “ What an ass !” 

“ So he is; and that is perhaps his chief offence, since a man 
who is an ass can never be a good knave — certainly never a 
successful one,” was the reply of Webber. 

“ True enough, Matthew,” said Foster, “ but this is the poor 
fellow’s misfortune. In this condition he can do nothing for 
himself any more than for us. Will he marry the girl?” 

“ If he can.” 

“And can he not?” 

“ Yes, I think he may—he might if he could keep his secret. 
But it is my fear that he can not keep his secret. His heart 
has got the better of his head—his conscience of his necessi¬ 
ties ; and these gloomy fits which he has now so constantly not 
only make him neglectful of our interests and his duties, but 
will, I am dubious, precipitate him into some folly which will be 
the undoing of all of us. You know the laws, Clement Foster: 


THE TOO CONSCIENTIOUS BROTHER. 325 

don’t you think he could get clear of justice, by telling all he 
knows about us ?” 

“ Pshaw ! what does he know ? and who would believe him, 
unless he gave us up to justice — unless he brought the hounds 
to our cover?—and even that would do little, unless he could 
point out and prove particular acts. What does he know of 
me, or you? We could prove him a liar by a cloud of witnes¬ 
ses whom he never saw, who could go into court and swear 
everything.” 

“ True enough; but that we should get clear does not do 
away with his offence, should he endeavor to involve us.” 

“By no means—but wherefore should he seek to do so? — 
what could be his object ? His own exposure follows, or, in¬ 
deed, precedes ours; and for a man to prove himself a knave, 
merely to show that his neighbor is just as bad, is thrice-sodden 
folly.” 

“Well, such is always your conscientious fool.” 

“ But Eberly is a fool of love, Mat, and not of conscience.” 

“And fools of love, Foster, are very apt to be fools of con¬ 
science.” 

“ By no means: they are the greatest knaves in the wide 
world, and worse hypocrites than a pork-eating parson ! They 
lie* or do anything to get the woman ; for passion was never yet 
a moralist.” 

“ Well — I don’t know—but Eberly has done nothing for 
some time past. He has let several matters slip through his 
fingers. There was an affair—only two weeks ago —that 
nearly swamped us all, from his not coming according to 
promise.” 

“What affair? something I have not heard of?” 

“ Yes. There were two larks that were hitched at my house, 
or rather that we tried to hitch. One of them got out of the 
noose, and thumped Breton over his mazzard so that the bridge 
of his nose is broken down for ever. He got off as far as the 
‘Day Blind,’ and there was tumbled by a stranger —a fellow 
that we sent after, and made sure of. I told you something 
already of the matter.” 

Here was something to confound me. Webber evidently al¬ 
luded to the affair of William and myself; yet he spoke of my 


326 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


friend being killed by a stranger. I was confused and bewil¬ 
dered 'by the new position of events, but was quite too awk¬ 
wardly placed to venture any questions on so dangerous a topic. 
They proceeded in their dialogue : — 

“ All this comes of his passion for the girl. When they are 
once married, you’ll see that he’ll recover.” 

“ If I thought so, by God, it would please me the best of all 
things. It would do my heart good to sing it in the ears of her 
insolent father, that his daughter was the wife of a public rob¬ 
ber— a thief of the highway !” 

“ So, so, Mat! Don’t, I pray you, disparage our profession ! 
Tenderly, tenderly—no nicknaming—and have done with your 
malice. Malice is a base, bad quality, and I heartily despise 
your fellows who treasure up inveterate prejudices. They are 
always a yellow-souled, snakish set, that poison themselves 
with the secretions of their own venom. Now, for my part, I 
have no hates, no prejudices: if I have anything to thank 
Heaven for, it is possessions of a better sort than this. My 
chickens lay better eggs, and hatch no vipers.” 

A pretty sentiment enough for a rogue and hypocrite! But 
of what strange contradictions are we compounded ! The dia¬ 
logue was soon brought to a close: — 

“ It is understood, then,” said Foster, “ that Haller and Wil¬ 
liams” (meaning me) “ are to watch his motions, and see that 
he keeps in traces. Are these two enough, or shall we put a 
third with them V* 

“Quite enough to follow and to punish,though it is well that 
we should all note his movements, and watch him when we can. 
Does Mr. Williams know the extent of his power V* demanded 
Webber, turning to me. 

“Ay,” was the reply of Foster; “he knows that he has 
power to adjudge, and execute even to death; but I would beg 
him to recollect that he must award with great caution against 
a confederate. An unjust punishment incurs similar judgment; 
and we are prompt to avenge an injury done to one of our com¬ 
rades. I would not have him too precipitate with Eberly: he 
is a fellow of good qualities; he is bold as a lion —generous 
to the last sixpence—” 

“ And a little too conscientious, you should add,” was the in- 


THE TOO CONSCIENTIOUS BROTHER. 


327 


terruption of Webber — “a little too conscientious. We were 
a few thousand dollars the richer, but for that.” 

“Ah, you mistake, Matthew; he was busy making love, and 
had holyday. Let him but become a husband, and you’ll 
then see how constant he will be—in his absence from home.” 

Here the conversation ended for the ni^lit. 


328 


RICHARD HURDI8. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

DESPAIR OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 

‘The drunkard after all his lavish cups 
Is dry, and then is sober; so, at length, 

When you awake from the lascivious dream 
Repentance then will follow, like the 6ting 
Placed in the adder’s tail.”— White Devil. 

The next morning, before it was yet dawn, Foster aroused 
me where I was sleeping beneath my green-wood tree. 

“We must be stirring, Williams; I have tidings from some 
of our friends in Tuscaloosa, who appoint to meet me to-morrow 
noon, at the Sipsy. We have a snug place in the River Swamp, 
more secure and comfortable even than this; and we shall no 
doubt meet many of our friends. There, too, you must keep a 
bright look out, for you will there see Eberly, and your watch 
must begin from the moment you encounter him.” 

I arose with no very comfortable feelings at this assurance. 
I was to begin the labors of the spy. Well! my hand was in 
for it, and it was no time to look back. I must on, with what 
feeling it mattered little to those around me; and, having gone 
so far, perhaps but little to myself. I strove, as well as I might, 
to shake off my sombre feelings—certainly to conceal their 
expression. Foster did not seem to heed my taciturnity. If 
he did, he did not suffer me to see that he remarked it; but 
playfully and even wittily remarking upon the sluggish move¬ 
ments of our companions, Webber included, to whom early 
rising seemed an annoyance, he led the way, and we were all 
soon mounted and on our journey. It was near noon when we 
reached our place of destination, and such a place! Imagine 
for yourself, a thousand sluices over a low boggy ground run¬ 
ning into one, which, in time, overflowing its channels sluices 


DESPAIR OP THE WEAK BROTHER. 


829 


all the country round it, and you have some faint idea of the 
borders of the Sipsy River. Nothing could we see but a turbid 
yellow water, that ran in among the roots of the trees, spread 
itself all around for miles, forming a hundred little currents, 
some of which were quite as rapid as a mill-race. The road 
was lost in the inundation; and but that our men were well 
acquainted with the region, we should have been drowned — 
our horses at least—in the numerous bays and bogs which lay 
everywhere before us. Even among our party a guide was 
necessary—and one who understood the route better than the 
rest was singled out to lead the way. For a time we seemed 
utterly lost in the accumulating pits and ponds, crossing cur¬ 
rents and quagmires in which our path was soon involved, and 
I could easily conjecture the anxiety of our company from the 
general silence which they kept. But our guide was equal to 
the task, and we soon found ourselves upon a high dry island, 
within a few yards of the opposite shore, which, when we 
reached, Foster throwing himself with an air of satisfaction 
from his horse, proclaimed it our present resting-place. Here 
we were joined by a man whom I had not seen before, who 
had been awaiting us, and who brought letters to Foster. 
Some of these, from Mobile, New Orleans, Montgomery, and 
Tuscaloosa, he was pleased to show me; and their contents 
contributed not a little to confound me, as they developed the 
large extent of the singular confederacy, of which X was held a 
member. Some of the plans contained in these letters were of 
no less startling character. One, which was dwelt on with some 
earnestness by two of the writers was a simultaneous robbery 
of all the banks. 

“A good proposition enough,” was the quiet remark of 
Foster, passing his finger over the paragraphs—“had they in 
money but one-tentli part of the amount which they have in 
paper. But to empty vaults which have no specie, is little to 
my taste. I should soon put a stop to specie payments, without 
rendering necessary an act of Congress. Here now, is some- 
thing infinitely more profitable, but far more dangerous. We 
shall consider this.” 

He pointed out to me another suggestion of the writer which 
seemed to have been debated upon before—the atrociousness 


330 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


of which curdled my blood to read. I could scarcely propose 
the question. 

“But you will hardly act upon this—it is too —” 

I was about to say horrible — it was well I did not. Foster 
fortunately finished the sentence for me in a different manner. 

“ Too dangerous you would say ! It would be to a blunderer. 
But we should be off the moment it was over. Having made 
use of the torch, we should only stay long enough to take "what 
was valuable from the house, and not wait until it had tumbled 
upon us. But this matter is not yet ready. We have business, 
scarcely less profitable, to be seen to, and three days more may 
give us a noble haul. See to this. Here I am advised by a 
sure friend at Washington, that a large amount of government 
money is on its way for the Choctaws—it will not be my fault 
if they get it. That is worth some pains-taking—but—” 

He paused and folded up his papers. The tramp of steeds 
was heard plashing through the mire and approaching the 
island. Webber was next heard in conversation with the new¬ 
comers, whose voices now reached us distinctly. Foster ad¬ 
dressed me as he heard them in suppressed tones and with a 
graver manner. 

“That’s Eberly’s voice,” he said—“you must look to him, 
Williams. From this moment do not lose him from your sight 
till you can report on his conduct decisively. Here is Haller 
coming toward us. He has heard of Eberly’s approach and 
like yourself will be on the watch. Let me say to you that 
Haller will report of you as narrowly as he does of Eberly. 
He does not know you yet, and has no such confidence in you 
as I have. I know that you will fear nothing that he can 
report; and yet, that my judgment may not suffer in the esti¬ 
mation of our people, I should be better pleased if you could 
outwatch your comrade.” 

I made out to say—“ Trust me—you have no need of appre¬ 
hension. I will do my best at least.” 

“ Enough,” said he,—“ he comes. Poor fellow, he looks sick 
—unhappy!” 

This was said in an under-tone, as if in soliloquy, and the 
next moment, the person spoken of, emerging from the shade of 
• bush which stood between himself and me, came full in r\y 


DESPAIR OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 


331 


sight. What was my astonishment and misery to behold in 
him, the young man Clifton, introduced to me by Colonel Graf¬ 
ton, and, as I feared, the accepted lover of his daughter. I was 
rooted to the spot with surprise and horror, and could scarcely 
recover myself in time to meet his approach. A desperate 
resolve enabled me to do this, and when he drew nigh, I was 
introduced to him as “ one of us” by Foster. Clifton, or as I 
shall continue to call him Eberly, scarcely gave me a look. 
His eyes never once met either Foster’s or my own. He was 
pale and looked care-worn. With a haggard smile, he listened 
to the kind yet hypocritical compliments of Foster, but uttered 
nothing in reply. Other persons now began momentarily to 
arrive, and by night our number was increased to twenty-five 
or thirty. I underwent the fraternal hug, with all the old vil¬ 
lains, and some five noviciates like myself; and, in a varied 
discussion of such topics as burglary, horse and negro stealing, 
forging, mail-robbing and various other similarly innocent em¬ 
ployments, we contrived to pass over the hours without discord 
or monotony until the coming on of night put our proprietors 
in mind of supper. I need not dwell upon any of the plans 
and purposes of crime, in particular, which underwent discus¬ 
sion on that occasion, since none of them will affect very ma¬ 
terially my own narrative. It is enough for me to affirm that 
among these members of the Mystic Brotherhood, crime of all 
sorts and complexions, seemed reduced to a perfect system, and 
the hands which ministered seemed to move rather like those 
of automata than of thinking and resolving men. At supper I 
sat opposite to Eberly—my eye was fixed upon him all the 
while, and my recognition of him, as the lover of the poor 
Julia, fully reconciled me to the task I had undertaken, of con¬ 
victing him of treason to his associates. His treason to beauty 
—to innocence — to hospitality, and confiding friendship — 
made my otherwise odious duty a grateful one; and I felt a 
malignant sort of pleasure, as I watched my victim, to think 
that his punishment lay in my own hands. And yet, while I 
looked upon him, I felt at moments, my heart sink and sicken 
within me. I somehow began to doubt how far he could be 
guilty—how far he could be guilty with these—how far guilty 
to her 1 He ate nothing, and looked very pale and wretched. 


832 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


His spirit seemed anywhere but with his associates—and 
though his eye acknowledged every address, and his tongue 
replied to every demand, yet it was evident enough that there 
was a lack of mental consciousness — an abstractedness of mood 
and thought, which left it doubtful when he spoke whether he 
was altogether assured of the words he uttered, or of those he 
heard. 

After supper our chief rogues renewed the discussion of sun¬ 
dry of their plans, and for a while the curiosity which I felt at 
the strangeness of some of their propositions, and the stories 
of their several achievements, half reconciled me to listen to 
their heinousness. But there was quite too much of it in the 
end—a still-beginning, never-ending repetition of the same 
business, only varied by the acting persons, place, and time; 
and, following the lead of Webber and one or two others, I 
went aside to the fire which Haller had kindled up, and under 
a tent of bark, I housed myself for the night. I did not hope 
for sleep, for my mind was full of troublesome thoughts, yet I 
was surprised by the feather-footed visitant, and slept soundly 
for a space of two hours. I was awakened by some one sha¬ 
king me by the shoulder, and, starting to my feet, found my 
comrade Haller standing beside me. 

“ Get up,” he said, “ it’s time to look after Eberly. He has 
gone out into the bushes, having left Webber whom he slept 
with. He thought Mat was asleep, and stole off. We must get 
on his trail and see what lie’s after.” 

I obeyed and we went together with great caution to the 
rude tent in which Webber slept. He gave us some directions, 
and following them we soon found our man. He had gone to 
the place where Foster slept alone — a bushy dell of the woods 
scooped out sufficiently to enable one, by crawling through a 
narrow mouth to secure an easy, though perhaps confined, couch 
within. The greater apertures made by torn branches or 
fallen leaves were supplied by sapplings hewn from neighbor¬ 
ing places, and twisted in with the native growth of the spot; 
and with the aid of some rushes, a blanket; and a good warm 
watch-coat, Foster had a tenement which art could scarcely 
have made warmer, though in social respects, it certainly might 
have undergone considerable improvement. 


DESPAIR OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 


388 


We reached a spot within hearing distance of this, in suffi¬ 
cient time to note the first approaches of Eberly to its inmate. 
Foster came forth at his summons, and as my eye turned upon 
the course which they took together, Haller touched my arm. 
When I turned, I beheld Webber also standing beside us, who, 
taking Haller with him, proceeded cautiously to an opposite 
point, where it seems they expected the two to go, Webber 
giving me instructions to follow them cautiously from where I 
stood; by which division of our force, he seemed resolute that 
one of us should succeed in our espionage. The several fires 
of the party were nearly extinguished. But there was still light 
enough to enable me to discern the outlines of their persons as 
they moved from me. I crept and crawled upon my mission 
of baseness, with all pains-taking circumspectness, but every 
moment increased the space between me and the men I pur¬ 
sued, until I had nearly lost sight of them altogether, when, on 
a sudden, they turned about and came again toward me. It is 
probable that they may have been disturbed by the too eager 
progress of the two spies on the other side, who thus drove 
them back upon me. Whatever may have been the cause of 
their return, I had barely time to shrink back into the shade 
of a large tree as they approached it; and the spot being 
sufficiently dense and dark prompted them to make it the 
scene of their conference. Foster was the first to speak. 
Stopping short as he reached a cluster of saplings, only a few 
paces removed from the place where I stood in shadow, he 
said :— 

“ Here now, Eberly, we are safe. Everything is still here, 
and there is no more danger of interruption. Unfold yourself 
now. What secret have you—why do you bring me forth at 
an hour when I assure you a quiet snooze would be more agree¬ 
able to me than the finest plot which you could fancy for rob¬ 
bing the largest portmanteau in Alabama V* 

“Do not jest with me, Foster—I can not jest; it is a mat¬ 
ter of life and death to me which makes me disturb you, else I 
should not do it. My life hangs upon your hands—more than 
life; I can not sleep myself; forgive me that I have taken you 
from yours.” 

Never were the tones of a man more piteously imploring than 


334 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


those of the speaker. I could well believe him when he said he 
could not sleep. 

“ Your life and death !” said Foster; “ why, what mean you, 
man ? Don’t stop to apologize for breaking my sleep, when 
such is the danger ! Speak—speak out, and let us know from 
what quarter the storm is coming. Who is the enemy you 
fear V’ 

“ You !” was the emphatic reply. “ You are my enemy !” 

“Me!” 

“ You, your fellows, and mine—myself! These are my ene¬ 
mies, Foster! It is from these that my apprehensions come — 
it is these that I fear ; my life is in their hands! More than 
life—much, much more!” 

“ Ha ! what is all this V’ 

“ You wonder. Hear me, Foster. I will tell you the truth 
—nothing but the truth ! I must leave the fraternity ! I am 
not fitted for its membership. I can not do the work it requires 
at my hands. I dare not — my soul sickens at its duties, and I 
can not perform them ! I lack the will—the nerve !” 

“ You know not what you say, Eberly,” was the grave reply 
of Foster. “ You surely do not forget the penalties which fol¬ 
low such an avowal as this V 9 

“No ! would I could forget them ! Have I not said that my 
life and death are in your hands V’ 

“ Wherefore have you awakened me then ?” was the cold and 
inauspicious reply. “ I could tell you no more than you al¬ 
ready know.” 

“ Yes, you can save me ! I come to you for pity ! I implore 
you to save me, which you can! A word from you will do it.” 

“ Can I — should I speak that word 1 It would ruin me—it 
would ruin us all!” 

“No ; it would not. You could lose nothing by letting me go 
free—nothing! for I can do nothing for you. I can not com¬ 
mit crime! I can neither lie, nor rob, nor slay! 1 can not 

obey you; and, sooner or later, you must execute your judg¬ 
ment upon me for neglect or perversion of my pledges!” 

“ This is certainly a very sudden attack of virtue, Mr. Eber¬ 
ly. You can neither lie, nor steal, nor slay. You have become 
too pure for these duties; but I remember the time, and that. 


DESPAIR OP THE WEAK BROTHER. 335 

too, no very distant time, when you were guilty of one or more 
of these dreadful sins from which your soul now shrinks.” 

“ Ay, and I remember it too, Foster. I did not need that you 
should remind me; would I could forget it!—hence came my 
bondage. You discovered my unhappy secret, and forged my 
shackles ! It is to you that I come to break them !” 

“You deny it not that you were guilty of the robbery of old 
Harbers then 1” 

“ I deny it not; and yet I know not, Foster, if it was an of¬ 
fence of which I have so much reason to be ashamed. Thank 
God I I took not his money for myself; the wants of a dying 
mother, the presence of a cruel necessity, was my extenuation, 
if not excuse, for that hapless act—an act which has been the 
heavy millstone around my neck in each succeeding moment of 
my life ! Bitterly have I repented—” 

“You can not repent—you shall not repent!” was the sud¬ 
den speech of Foster. “You have not the right to repent— 
you are sworn to us against it, and can not repent without our 
permission.” 

“ It is for that permission, Foster, that I come to implore you 
now. I know that you are superior to the cold and cruel peo¬ 
ple whom you lead. You will, you must, feel for my situation. 
I am of no use to you, I can not rob the traveller, nor forge a 
note, nor inveigle a negro from his master—still less can I stab 
or shoot the unoffending man who opposes my unlawful attempts 
upon his property. I am, indeed, only an incumbrance upon 
you—” 

“ You have our secrets.” 

“ I will keep them — I swear to you, Foster, by all that is 
sacred that I will keep them !” 

“You can not, to be honest—to go back to the paths of vir¬ 
tue. You must reveal our secrets; and not to do so is a half 
virtue which looks monstrously like hypocrisy. It is a com¬ 
promise with vice, to say the least of it, which puts the blush 
upon your late returning innocence. No, Eberly, we must 
keep our secrets ourselves by keeping bound those who know 
them. Say that you are unable to serve us by any of the acts 
you mention—you are not less able to serve us in other re¬ 
spects, equally sinful yet not so obnoxious to public censure or 


336 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


punishment. As a strong man it might be my lot to depend on 
your friendly sympathy to save me from a halter.” 

“ I would do it, Foster, believe me.” 

“We must make you do it. We must keep our reins upor, 
you. But of what avail would be a permission to you which 
could not annihilate the proofs which we have against you? 
Whether we suffered you to go free, and held you to be no 
longer one of us or not; the offence which we could prove 
against you, would still make you liable to the law. Our mere 
permission to depart would be nothing—” 

“Yes — everything! It would free me from a bondage that 
now crushes me to the earth, and defeats all my meditated ac¬ 
tion in other respects! For the wrong I have done to Harbers, 
1 would make atonement—” 

“ Repay him the money from the robberies of others,” re¬ 
plied Foster, with a sneer. 

“ No, Foster,” said the young man patiently, “ not a cent 
would I bear from your treasury. I would go forth as unen¬ 
cumbered with your booty as I hope to be unencumbered with 
the sin and shame of the connection.” 

“You use tender words in speaking of your comrades and 
their occupations, Eberly.” 

“ Without meaning to offend, Foster. But hear me out. I 
should not merely repay Harbers, but I would confess to him 
the crime of which I had been guilty.” 

“ Ha! and the subsequent sinful connections which you have 
formed with us, and our precious doings together. This is your 
precious plan, is it V 

“Not so! Though resolved to declare my own crimes ana 
errors, I am not bound to betray the confidence of others.” 

“ This is your resolution now; how long will it remain so, and 
what will be our security when the chance happens — which 
may happen—when, at one full swoop, you may take us all 
like a flock of partridges, and deliver us up as an atonement 
for your own youthful sins, to the hands, so called, of Justice? 
Eberly—Eberly, you are speaking like a child. Do you think 
we can hearken to a prayer, such as that you make ? Why 
every white-livered boy of our band, who happened to fancy a 
pair of blue eyes, and a dimity petticoat, would be seized with 


DESPAIR OP THE WEAK BROTHER. 337 

a fit of virtue toward us, in precise degree with his hot lust 
after the wench he fancied—” 

“Stay, Foster; I see that you are aware of my intimacy 
with Miss Grafton.” 

“ Surely. You have never taken a step that I am not ac¬ 
quainted with. And now let me ask, did you feel our bondage 
so oppressive till you became acquainted with this girl ?” 

“ I did not; my knowledge of her first impressed upon me, 
with a more just sense of their worth, the value of those rewards 
which follow virtuous practice.” 

“ Pshaw, man, how r is the getting of this girl a reward of vir 
tue. Can’t you get her now, while you are a trusted member 
of the confederacy ? To the point, man, and speak out the 
truth, have you not spoken to her, and has she not consented 
to be yours ?” 

“ She has.” 

“ What more ! Marry her — we do not hinder you. We ob¬ 
ject not to the new bonds which you propose to put on yourself, 
though grumbling so much at ours. Be sure, we shall none of 
us forbid the banns. Marry her, and settle down in quiet; our 
laws will give you no trouble; your duties shall be accommo¬ 
dated to the new change in your condition, and, as a justice of 
the peace, a juror, member of the assembly, or of Congress, you 
can be as eminently useful to us as, nay, more useful than, a stri¬ 
ker along the woods, or a passer of counterfeit notes. These 
are small matters which any bull-head among us can perform; 
you have talents which can better serve us in higher stations.” 

The youth shook his head, as he replied sadly— 

“ If I did not love Julia Grafton, or if I loved her less, it 
might be easy to be satisfied with what you say. But I neither 
can nor will fetter myself or her in a bondage such as you men¬ 
tion. In truth, Foster, I can serve you no more — I can serve 
the confederacy no more. I make this declaration to you, 
though I die for it! On your mercy I throw myself—on your 
kindness often professed, and tried on more occasions than one! 
Be my friend, Foster — on my knees I pray you to save me in 
this respect — save me—let me go free — T will leave the coun¬ 
try — I will go into a distant state, where you can be in no dan¬ 
ger from anything that I can do or say ! You can have no rea 

15 


338 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


son to refuse me, since you can have no interest in keeping me 
to pledges which yield you no interest, and only bring me suf¬ 
fering ! Feeling as I do now, and situated as I am, I can do 
nothing for you! Command me to strike here or there, and I 
can not obey you! From this day forth I must withhold my 
service, though you do not cancel my bonds!” 

Foster seemed touched while the young man spoke, but this, 
perhaps, was only a part of his cool and ready hypocrisy. He 
interrupted Eberly when he had said the last sentence. 

“ Your refusal to serve us, would, you know, be the signal 
for your death.” 

“ I know it; and if you send forth the decree, I must meet 
my doom, and, I trust, will meet it like a man. But I would 
escape this doom; and to you, and you only, I refer, to extri¬ 
cate me from it, to effect my object, and get my release from 
the secret council. There is but one man whose refusal I fear, 
and with him you would have some difficulty, I doubt not; but 
even that I know you could overcome. Webber hates Grafton 
the father of Julia, and hates me, because I love her honorably. 
It was he who brought her to my notice, and prompted me to 
the scheme by which I became an intimate in the family; a 
scheme projected for a dishonorable and foul purpose, which 
has resulted so far, in one of which I have no reason to be 
ashamed. I would spare her the shame, Foster, of having con¬ 
sented to share the name and affections of one, who may be 
outlawed the very moment that he confers upon her his name.” 

I have said enough to exhibit the nature of this conference, 
which was continued twice as long. In its progress, the youth 
exhibited a degree of remorse and sorrow on the score of his 
own offences, and an honorable and delicate consideration in 
reference to Julia Grafton, which turned all my feelings of hos¬ 
tility into feelings of pity. Nor was this sentiment confined to 
my own bosom. I conscientiously believe, that Foster sympa 
thized with his grief, and inly determined, so far as the power 
in him lay, to help him to the desired remedy. The conference 
was ended by the latter saying to him, as he led the way back 
to his place of rest: — 

“ I must think on this matter, Eberly. I will dr what I can 
for you, but I can promise nothing. I deny not that I have 


DESPAIR OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 


339 


influence, but my influence depends, as you well know, upon 
such an exercise of it as will best accord with the views and 
wishes of those whom I control. I am sorry for you.” 

The youth stood a moment when the other had gone. Then 
throwing his arms up to Heaven, as he turned away, he ex¬ 
claimed : — 

“ At the worst I can but perish. But she ! she, at least, shall 
suffer nothing, either from my weakness or my love. She, at 
least, shall never be wedded to my accursed secret. Sooner 
than that, let the bullet or the knife do its work. Thank God, 
amidst all my infirmities, I have no dastard fear of death; — 
and yet, I would live. Sweet glimpses of joy in life, such as 1 
have never known till now, make it a thing of value. Oh! 
that I had sooner beheld them — I had not then been so profli 
gate of honor — so ready to yield to the base suggestions of this 
wretched clan.” 


340 


RICHARD HURD1S. 


CHAPTER XLY11. 

FLIGHT OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 

* I’ll note you in my book of memory, 

To Bcourge you for this reprehension ; 

Look to it well, and say you are well warned.”— Shakspere. 

The unhappy youth had scarcely gone from sight when Mat 
Webber and my colleague Haller emerged frorp a bush oppo¬ 
site, not ten paces off, in which they had, equally with myself, 
listened to the whole dialogue as I have already narrated it. 

“ So !” was the exclamation of Webber, shaking his slow fin¬ 
ger after the departing form of the youth — “ So ! It is as I 
expected; and your doom is written, Master Eberly. Foster 
can save you, can he? We will see to that! It would be a 
difficult matter for him to save himself, were he to try it. It is 
well you have no hopes from me — well! I hate your girl, do 
I, because she is the daughter of Grafton, and hate you because 
you love her honorably ? Well? there is truth in the notion, 
however your dull brains happened to hit upon it. I do hate 
both of you for that very reason. Had the fool used his pleas¬ 
ure with the girl, by G—d, I had forgiven him — he had had my 
consent to go where he pleased, and swear off from us at any 
moment, for he has done nothing since he has been a member 
—he was never of much use, and will be of still less now. But 
to love where I hate, is an offence I can not so readily forgive. 
No, Haller, the bullet and the knife for him. He shall keep 
our secrets, and his own too, if you and Williams do your duty. 
Ha! — who’s that ?” 

“ Williams himself,” was my answer, as I came out of my 
hiding-place, and joined them. 

'‘Well!—you have heard him — he avows his treason, and 


FLIGHT OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 


341 


you know his doom. What need of delay! Go after him 
alone — you will not have a better place for the blow if you 
waited a month. Go alone, and despatch the business.” 

I was not prepared for so sudden a requisition, and the san¬ 
guinary and stern command at once confounded me. Yet Web¬ 
ber had only repeated the words of Foster. In our hands lay 
the award and the execution of justice. We had been instruct¬ 
ed to punish, the moment we resolved that the penalty had 
been incurred; and there was no reasonable pretext for doubt. 
What to do or say, I knew not—to think of committing the 
cruel deed was, of course, entirely out of the question. Fortu¬ 
nately, the answer of my colleague, Haller, relieved me. 

“We had better wait and hear what Foster has to say. He 
may not be pleased that we should proceed so suddenly, par¬ 
ticularly when we knew that he had promised to take the affaii 
into consideration.” 

“ And what can his consideration come to ] What can he 
have to say 1 ? He can not alter the laws—he can not acquit 
an offender whom we condemn — he has no power for that.” 

“No ! He has no power for that; and, so far as my voice 
goes, we shall give him no such power in this instance,” was 
the reply of Haller. “ Yet, as a matter of civility only, it will 
be better that we should not proceed in this business till we 
have heard what Foster has to say. He might look upon it, 
that we slighted his opinions, and his wishes, at the least; and 
there’s no necessity for our seeming to do that. Besides, we 
can not lose by the delay. We can execute to-morrow just as 
well as to-day—Eberly can not escape us.” 

« True — that’s true,” was the reply of Webber; “though, to 
speak plainly, I don’t like this undertaking to interfere on the 
part of Clem Foster. He can’t certainly hope to persuade us 
to reverse our judgment, and let this boy loose, unmuzzled, to 
confuse and convict us in some of their dirty courts of jus¬ 
tice !—” 

“ No ! As you heard him say, that’s a matter more easy to 
think upon than to do. All that Eberly could say in a court¬ 
house could not prove against one of us, and we might hang 
him whenever we choose.” 

“ Yes, but we don’t want to get into a court of justice at all,” 



342 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


said Webber; “and there’s little need for it, when we have! 
laws, and courts, and executioners, of our own. I tell you, 
Haller, that I shall regard as an enemy any man who attempts 
to get this chap off from punishment. He shall die, by the 
Eternal!” 

“ So he may, for what I care,” said Haller. “ So, indeed, 
he shall, under our own certainty of what he deserves, and the 
power which has been entrusted to us. Be at rest, Mat Web¬ 
ber— I have as little reason to let Edward Eberly escape as 
you have. I hate him—from my heart I hate him ! He has 
scorned and insulted me before our men; and it will go hard 
with me if I don’t avenge the insult with sevenfold vengeance.” 

“ I’m satisfied that you will keep your word, Haller; but 
Foster’s a smooth-spoken fellow, and he may have some kink 
in bis head for saving this chap. He used to be very fond of 
keeping company with him, and they were always spouting 
verses and such stuff together. I know, too, for all Foster 
speaks so promptly of punishing him, that, in his secret heart, 
he had much rather let Eberly go clear from punishment, though 
he risked the safety of the whole company by it.” 

“ No danger of his doing it, whatever may be his wish,” said 
Haller; “ you have my oath upon it, Mat. Whatever Foster 
may say or do in the business, he can’t say or do anything to 
alter my determination. So make yourself easy. To-morrow, 
or the next day, at farthest, will wind up the traitor.” 

‘ You must keep watch meanwhile upon him.” 

“Yes!—go about it now, Williams; look to Eberly for the 
space of an hour, and I will come and relieve you. I must go 
with Webber, to see what Foster has to say in the business — 
and hearken to his interference, even if we do not mind it. But 
I d n’t think he’ll interfere, Mat. The spouting poetry might 
please his ears well enough, but I’m convinced he could slit the 
pipe of the spouter the moment he was done.” 

* “Perhaps so,” was the reply of Webber; “but, at all 
events—” 

They were leaving me now, and Haller interrupted the 
speaker to counsel me before he went. 

“ ! showed you, Williams, the place where Eberly sleeps; 
do you think you can find it V* 


PLIGHT OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 


343 


“Yes—I doubt not.” 

“ Then go to it at once, and note well who goes in to him, 
and who comes out. If he comes out slyly, and seems disposed 
to make off, do not stop to consider, but give him your bullet. 
Be sure to do this if you find him with his horse.” 

These were the instructions of Webber. The other merely 
iiid — 

“ Don’t fear tlia* he will try tc make off He knows such 
efforts can not give him security, though he should, for the pres¬ 
ent, escape us. No—he thinks Foster’s influence can save him, 
and he will remain quiet in reliance upon it.” 

“ Be not now too sure, Williams,” were the parting words of 
Webber; “watch closely, or the fellow may escape you yet. 
Remember you are on trial now : your promotion depends upon 
your zeal and success.” 

Nothing but the purposes which influenced me could have 
enabled me to tolerate, with patience, such language from such 
a wretch. I felt my heart burn, and my blood rise, and my lip 
quiver, with an anger which it required all my strength of res¬ 
olution to repress, every moment which I spent in my connec¬ 
tion with this herd of rogues. They left me, and, obeying their 
instructions, I proceeded to the place among the bushes—a 
leafy house — where Eberly slept; and, taking a position which 
enabled me to observe all the movements of its inmates, I pre¬ 
pared, with a thoughtful and sleepless mind, to pass away my 
hour of watch. 

Haller afterward related to me what took place in their in¬ 
terview with Foster. As he had predicted, the latter made but 
a feeble effort to excuse the unfortunate Eberly. 

“ We first tried to find out,” said Haller, “ if Foster was dis¬ 
posed to have any concealment from us; and, pretending that 
we knew nothing of the interview between Eberly and himself, 
we spoke of other matters entirely. But he volunteered, and 
told us all pretty nearly as we ourselves heard, except he may 
have suppressed some of those parts where Eberly spoke scorn¬ 
fully of Mat Webber. These he did not speak. He then 
asked us what we thought of the application; and when we 
told him that now there was no doubt that Eberly ought to die 
and must die, he agreed with us entirely. Indeed, even if he 


344 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


had not agreed with us, he must have seen, from the resolved 
manner in which we spoke, that it would not have been wisdom 
in him to express his disagreement; and his death is therefore 
resolved upon. We are instructed to do the business at once— 
better now than never. You say lie is still in his house V* 

This conversation took place where I had been watching in 
front of the bushy dwelling in which Eberly slept; but my 
answer to the con luding question of my comrade was a false¬ 
hood : — 

“Yes, he is still there. No one has gone in or out since 1 
have been here.” 

Nothing but the lie could save me, and I had no scruples 
whatsoever in telling it. I had seen persons go in and out. 
Scarcely had I got to my place of watch, indeed, when I saw 
Foster enter the dingle. I crawled closely up behind it, and 
heard enough to convince me that Foster was a greater hypo¬ 
crite than I had thought him, yet not so bad a man. 

“Eberly!” he said quickly. The youth started from the 
ground where I could see he was kneeling. He started and 
drew a pistol in the same moment. The click of the cock 
warned Foster to speak again. He did so, and announced his 
name. 

“ I come to warn you that you can stay here no longer. I 
can not save you, Eberly. I wish I could. But that is impos¬ 
sible. My lips must denounce you, to keep myself unsuspected. 
There is a conspiracy against me, which I must foil. To seek 
to save you, I would only sacrifice myself, and do you no ser¬ 
vice. I can do nothing, therefore, but counsel you to fly. The 
sooner you are off the better. Indeed, I risk not a little in 
coming to you now. Breton, the trusty fellow, advises me that 
Webber, Haller, and Williams, are even now denouncing me in 
the woods, where it seems they overheard all our conference. 
It was well that I suspected them, and scrupulously addressed 
my words rather to their ears than yours. This will excuse to 
you my seeming harshness. But I can say no more. In a 
short time they will seek me. Take that time to be off. Fly 
where you can. Put the Ohio between us as soon as possible, 
for no residence in the Southwest will save you.” 

But few words were uttered by the visiter, but these were 


PLIGHT OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 


345 


enough to prompt the immediate exertions of the youth. Hith¬ 
erto he had appeared to me in an attitude rather feeble and 
unmanly; there was something puny and effeminate in the 
manner of his appeal to Foster in their previous interview; 
but this he seemed to discard in the moment which called foi 
resolute execution. He drew forth and reprimed his pistols, 
ret his dirk-knife in readiness, and was ready in two minutes 
!c depart. 

“ Fortunately, I left my horse on the very edge of the island/' 
was his self-congratulating remark. “ Foster, God bless you, as 
I do ! . Would that I could persuade you to fly with me!” 

The other shook his head. 

“Go! go! that is impossible. You fly—because you have 
hopes to fly to. I have none. You love, Eberly — may your 
love be more fortunate than mine has been — than I am dis¬ 
posed to think human affections generally are. It is because I 
too have loved, that I sympathize with you, and am willing to 
assist you in your flight. I know not that I am serving you, 
Eberly, in this, yet it is my will to serve you. Take the will 
for the deed, and be gone with all haste. You have not a mo¬ 
ment— adieu!” 

Foster left him, and, in an instant after, Eberly emerged from 
the dingle. It was in my power to have obeyed to the very 
letter the instructions which had been given me, and to have 
shot him down without difficulty. My extended arm, at one 
moment, as he passed from the copse, could have touched his 
shoulder. But my weapon was unlifted; and I felt a sudden 
satisfaction as I found it in my power to second the intentions 
of Foster. This personage had placed himself also in a more 
favorable light before my eyes during the brief interview which 
I have narrated. It gave me pleasure to see that, amid brutal 
comrades, and wild, lawless, and foul pursuits, he yet cherished 
in his bosom some lingering sentiments of humanity. There 
was something yet in his heart which partook of the holy na¬ 
ture of a childhood which, we may suppose, was even blessed 
with hopes and kindred, and which, however perverted now to 
the lessons and performances of hate, once knew what it was to 
do homage at the altar of confiding love. Foster, as may al¬ 
ready have appeared to the reader, was not deficient in those 

16 * 


34 G 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


requisitions of education whicli refine the taste and sentiment, 
however much they may fail to impress themselves for good 
on a corrupt and insensible spirit. 

To return. I denied to Haller, as already stated, that any 
one had gone in or out from the place where Eberly slept. In 
the unequivocal lie was my only hope, and I had no scruple to 
utter it. My comrade then spoke as follows : — 

“ We have agreed among ourselves that he must be wound 
up. Foster makes no objections, and Webber insists that it be 
done immediately. To you it is intrusted to give the blow; 
and this concludes your trial. I will go in and entice him out 
to you. Do you creep forward as you see me enter. Stand 
behind yon tree to the left, and I will bring him under it on 
the other side. Have your pistol cocked, and use it. But take 
care not to mistake your man. If you notice his white hat, you 
can’t blunder. Keep quiet, now, while I go in.” 

He left me, and I paused where I was. Musing on the un¬ 
anticipated disappointment of the ruffian, a sudden whisper at 
my side aroused me to a recollection of myself. The voice w r as 
Webber’s. He had crawled up to me with the stealthy pace 
of the wild-cat, and my involuntary start, as he spoke, attested 
my wonder at the ease and dexterity of his approach. 

“ Why do you stand V’ he said in stern accents; “ were you 
not told what to do—where to go 1 You have no time to waste 
—go forward!” 

Not to seem remiss, I answered promptly : — 

“ I wished him first to get there. Both of us moving at the 
same time, might alarm him.” 

“ More likely to do so moving one at a time; but move now 
—you are slow. You will win no favor in the club if you are 
not more prompt.” 

I could have driven my fist into his teeth as he spoke thus 
authoritatively; but prudence stifled my anger. As it was, 
however, I gave a sharp reply, which had in it a latent threat: 

“ You will find me prompt enough when the time comes, Mr. 
Webber.” 

“ I hope so, I hope so,” he said coolly. I went forward, and 
reached my station but a single instant before Haller re-emerged 
from the copse. 


Flight of the weak brother. 


847 


“ He is gone — the bird is off!” he cried out as he approached. 

“ Ha ! how is this ?” exclaimed Webber, putting his hand up¬ 
on my shoulder with a firm gripe. “ You have lot him escape, 
Williams! You have slept on your post, man; or you have 
connived—” 

He paused ; but his language, tone, and manner, were so irre¬ 
sistibly provoking, that I shook his grasp from my shoulder, 
and, facing him boldly, replied — 

“ It’s false, whoever says it! I have done neither, sir—nei¬ 
ther connived with him, nor seen him fly. Recall your words, 
or, by Heavens, I strike you in the mouth!” 

“And if you did, young ’un, you’d get little profit from it — 
you’d get quite as good as you sent. But this is no time to 
vapor. It’s very likely you’re right, and I’m wrong, and that 
must satisfy you at present. How is it, Haller?—wherefore 
should he fly ? Did you not understand that he would wait to 
hear Foster’s decision ?” 

“No, I did not understand, but I inferred it. It seemed to 
me, from the confidence which he expressed in Foster’s ability 
to save him, that he would scarce think it policy to fly; since 
flight, as it indicated distrust of us, would at once provoke our 
distrust of him, and lead to a denial of his prayer. I would 
have sworn that we should find him there.” 

“ He has thought better of it, and taken to his heels. But 
he has not gone far. He will not go far. He’s to marry Graf¬ 
ton’s daughter: I know that they’re engaged, and the affair is 
to take place very soon. I shouldn’t be at all surprised, from 
his agitation and hasty reference to Foster—not to speak of his 
flight now — if it is fixed for to-morrow or the next night.” 

There was much in this speech to confound and afflict me. 
* That marriage must be prevented,” I inly declared to myself. 
** I must risk everything to prevent its consummation. The 
poor girl must not be sacrificed to such a connection. However 
much I may pity him” — and circumstances really began to im¬ 
press me favorably toward Clifton — “ I must yet save her.” 

While the two confederates debated the matter, I formed my 
own plans. 

“ Mr. Webber,” I said, “ you have ascribed the flight of this 
man to m 3 neglect, or, which is worse, my connivance; and 


348 


RICHARD HtTRDIS. 


your apology, if it may be called such, is scarcely satisfactory 
to me. But I leave my personal atonement over, and waive 
my own claims to the interests of our confederacy. I claim to 
pursue this man Eberly — to pursue and put him to death. The 
privilege is mine, for several reasons : the principal are enough. 
I will establish my claim to the confidence of the confederacy; 
and, as the death of Eberly seems now essential to our secret, 
secure that. Instruct me where to seek for him. I will pursue 
him to Grafton’s, and put a stop to this wedding in the most 
effectual manner. Give me the necessary directions, and you 
shall see that I am neither a sleeper nor a traitor. You will 
also see whether I am bold enough to strike either in our com¬ 
mon cause or in defence of my own honor.” 

“ Shrewdly crowed, young chicken, and to the purpose,” was 
the chuckling response of Webber. “Now, that’s what I like 
— that’s coming out like a man; and if you succeed in doing 
what you promise, you will undoubtedly have an equal claim 
on me and the confederacy. But don’t misunderstand me, Wil¬ 
liams. I never had any doubt of your honor, and, if I had, 
your offer now sufficiently proves me to have been wrong. I 
spoke from the haste and disappointment of the moment; and 
I have not the slightest question that Eberly took off the mo¬ 
ment after leaving Foster. He took the alarm at something or 
other — and men who have in them a consciousness of wrong, 
find cause of alarm in everything; or it may be that he medi¬ 
tated flight from the first—for, now I think of it, I observed, 
when he first came, that he fastened his horse on the edge of 
the swamp, by ‘ Pigeon-Boost branch,’ which you know, Haller, 
is scarce a stone’s throw from the main road : though that would 
be a stranger plan than all, since, if he meditated flight, he need 
not have come; he only incurred useless risk by doing so.” 

“He’s half mad — that’s it,” said Haller. “But let us look 
if his horse is gone. That will settle our doubts. It may be 
that he is still on the island somewhere.” 

To ascertain this fact did not take many minutes, and the 
absence of the horse confirmed the flight of the fugitive. I now 
demanded of Webber if my proffer was accepted. To go upon 
a mission of this kind, which would enable me to seek out and 
confer with Colonel Grafton, was now the dearest desire of my 


PLIGHT OF THE WEAK BROTHER. 849 

heart. To save his daughter was a sufficient motive for this 
desire; to wreak the measure of my great revenge upon the 
damnable fraternity with which I had herded for this single 
object, was no less great, if not, in a public point of view, much 
greater. I had a stomach for the lives of all — all. The mem¬ 
ory of my murdered friend took all mercy from my heart. 

To my question, Webber answered : — 

“We must see what Foster says. We will go to him at once. 
I’m willing that you should go about this business, and will help 
you to all information ; but I’m scarcely in a hurry about it now. 
I’ve been thinking it would please me better to let him marry 
the girl before we kill him. Then, if it so happened that I 
could ever lay my foot on Grafton’s throat, as I hope to do before 
long, I could howl it in his ears, till it hurt him worse than my 
bullet or my knife, that his sweet Julia, his darling, of whom 
he is so fond, and proud, and boastful, was the wife of a common 
robber — a thief of the highway — a rogue to all the world, and 
worse than a rogue to his own comrades! That would be a 
triumph, Haller ; and Grafton, if I know the man rightly, would 
go out of the world with a howl when I cried it in his ear!” 

Sickening at the fiendish thought, I turned with revulsion 
from the fiend, and felt humbled and sad as I was constrained 
to follow such a ruffian in silence, and without any show of that 
natural resentment which I felt. But I conquered my impa¬ 
tience as I reflected that, by delay, I hoped to obtain at once a 
complete and certain satisfaction. An image of my sanguinary 
revenge rose before my eyes as 1 then went forward; and, in 
fancy, I beheld streaming wounds, and I felt my feet plashing in 
rivulets of stagnating blood! — and a strange but shuddering 
pleasure went through my bosom at the fancy. 


35C 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

THE AFFAIR GROWS MORE INTRICATE. 

-“ The land wants such 

As dare with vigor execute the laws; 

Her festered members must be lanced and tented: 

He’s a bad surgeon that for pity spares 
The part corrupted, till the gangrene spreads, 

And all the body perish : He that’s merciful 
Unto the bad is cruel to the good.”— Randolph. 

Foster received the tidings of Eberly’s flight with well- 
affected astonishment. Putting on the sternest expression of 
countenance, he looked on me with suspicion. 

“And you were set to watch him, Williams. How is this] 
I fear you have been neglectful—you have slept upon your 
watch — I can not think that you have had any intelligence 
with Eberly.” 

In answering the speaker, I strove to throw into my eyes a 
counselling expression, which it was my hope to make him 
comprehend. My answer, shaped to this object, had the de¬ 
sired effect. 

“ I have not slept, and you do me only justice, when you 
think that I have had no intelligence with the fugitive. But I 
have volunteered to pursue him, and will execute your judg¬ 
ments upon him, if I can; even though he should put the Ohio 
between us” 

The reader will remember, that the phrase here italicised 
was employed by Foster himself, in giving his parting counsels 
to Eberly. Foster readily remembered it, and I could detect 
— so I fancied — in the tone of voice with which he addressed 
me in reply, a conviction that I was privy to his own partial, 
and perhaps, pardonable treachery to his comrades. In every 


THE AFFAIR GROWS MORE INTRICATE. 351 

other respect he seemed unmoved, and his reply was instan¬ 
taneous. 

“ And we accept your offer, Williams—you shall have the 
opportunity you seek to prove your fidelity, and secure the 
confidence of the club. We are agreed, Webber, are we not, 
that Williams shall take the track of Eberly V’ 

“Ay — to-morrow, though I care not that he should strike 
till the day following, if it be that I conjecture rightly on one 
matter.” 

“ What matter 1 What is it that you conjecture ?” demanded 
Foster, suspiciously. 

“ Why, that Eberly is about to marry Julia Grafton. It 
would not surprise me much if the affair takes place in a day 
or two. I think it must be so, from his present anxiety.” 

“ He would be a fool, indeed, to think of such a thing, with¬ 
out our permission,” replied Foster; “ but even if such be the 
case, wherefore would you defer execution upon him till the 
day following, supposing that Williams should get a chance to 
strike as we blow.” 

“ I would have the marriage completed,” was the answer. 
“ I would have Grafton’s pride humbled by his daughter’s union 
with one whom we should be able, not only to destroy, but 
dishonor. By all that is devilish in my heart, Foster, I could 
risk my life freely, to tell Grafton all this story, with my own 
lips the day after his daughter’s nuptials.” 

“ Well, you hate fervently enough,” said Foster; “ and, per 
haps, where one’s hand’s in, he may as well thrust away with 
his whole soul. But this helps not our purpose. It is agreed, 
you say, that Williams goes upon this business ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then his course must take him at once to Grafton’s neigh¬ 
borhood.” 

“ Yes—that is our course too. We meet to-morrow, you 
recollect, with Dillon and others, at the ‘ Blind.’ Our beginners 
must be examined there.” 

“ But Williams must start before us.” 

“No — it needs not,” said Webber. “We need be in no 
hurry now, since there can be no doubt that we shall be able 
to find Eberly at any moment within the three next days 


352 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


Williams knows that he must find him in that time, and if he 
does not, send Dillon and Haller on his track, and they find 
him, I’ll bet my life, though they hid him in the closest scuttle- 
hole of Natchy swamp. Let us all go together to the meeting 
of the ‘ Blind,’ and not alarm the traitor by pressing the pursuit 
upon him in the very moment of his flight. Let him have a 
little time—let him marry away, and be happy, if he can, for 
a night or two. It will not diminish his punishment that he 
has a taste only of wedlock. Julia Grafton is a sweet girl 
enough — I could have taken her myself, and, perhaps, been an 
honest overseer of her father’s plantation all my life—bowing 
respectfully to his high mightiness, and kissing the rod of his 
rebuke—had he only looked a willingness to let me have her. 
But, as it is—let the game go ! It matters not much who has 
what we can’t have; and yet I hate Grafton so cursedly, that 
it gives me pleasure to think that she is to be the wife of one 
so completely in our power, as Edward Eberly — or Clifton, as 
we should call him in Grafton Lodge. Let him swing freely 
on his gate awhile ; and Williams may take his time. He can 
not escape all of us, though he may escape him.” 

“You will instruct Williams then, when he shall go, and 
where,” said Foster. 

“Yes—that shall be my look-out. In the meantime, let us 
go to sleep. We have to start early, and the small hours are 
beginning—I can tell from the increasing darkness and the 
cold. Let us wrap up, and sleep fast, for we must be stirring 
early. Williams, I’ll wake you in the morning.” 

“ The sooner the better,” was my reply; “ for, between us, I 
don’t like this putting off. If I am to go after Eberly, I’d 
rather start at daylight, and strike as soon as I get a chance. 
I hate, when I have such a business on hand, to risk its justice 
by my own delay; particularly when delay can be avoided. 
Besides, I’m thinking that if Eberly marries this girl, he will 
be cunning enough to leave the country. Ten to one, lie’s 
made all his arrangements for an early start, and will he off on 
fast horses soon after the event.” 

“ That’s true,” said the ruffian ; “ I did not think of that — 
yt u shall start as soon as possible after we have met our men 
at the ‘Blind’ to-morrow. We must meet them there first, for 


THE AFFAIR GROWS MORE INTRICATE. 


853 


I have business of importance with one of them that must be 
seen to ; and you’ll have to wait till I can show you the way to 
Grafton’s, and some few of our hiding-places thereabouts.” 

In my eagerness, I had almost told him that I knew the 
place well enough, and could find it without him. My anxiety 
to be in season to prevent the nuptials, had nearly blinded me 
to the great risk of detection, to which such an avowal must 
have subjected me. But I met the inquiring glance of Foster’s 
eye at this moment, and that brought me to my senses. It 
taught me that I was playing a part of triple treachery, and 
warned me to be duly cautious of what I uttered. Without 
further question or reply, we broke up for the night; and it 
seemed to me that I had scarcely got snugly into my place of 
rest, and closed my eyes for an instant, before I was awakened 
by Webber, with a summons to set forward. However wanting 
in proper rest, for my partial slumbers of the night had given 
me no refreshment, I had too greatly at heart the peace of 
Grafton’s family, and the safety of the poor girl Julia, not to 
leap with alacrity at the summons. Ten minutes sufficed to set 
us all in motion, and as the'bright blaze of the sun opened upon 
us, we were speeding on at full gallop, some seven of us, at 
least, to our place of meeting at the “ Blind.” There had been, 
at different periods of the night, full thirty men in our bivouac 
in the Sipsy, but they came and went at all hours, and none 
remained but those who had something of the general manage¬ 
ment of the rest. Five of these were my companions now 
The other two were Haller- and myself. Haller, it seems, was 
not so much a counsellor as a trusted underling or orderly—a 
fellow sufficiently cunning to seem wise, and so much of the 
rogue as to deserve, even if lacking wisdom, a conspicuous 
place among those whose sole aim was dishonesty. But our 
business is not with him. 

A smart ride of a few hours brought us to our resting-place, 
a nest of hills huddled together confusedly, and forming, with 
the valley already described, called the “ Day Blind,” a hun¬ 
dred natural hiding-places of like form and character. Here 1 
was within a few miles only of Col. Grafton’s residence. I had 
passed the dwelling of Matthew Webber, already so well 
known to the reader, and who should be my companion, side 


354 


RICHARD HURDIfe. 


by side with me as I passed it, but Webber himself. I watched 
him closely when we came in sight of it, and though I could 
see that he regarded it with wistful attention, yet he was as 
silent as the grave even on the subject of his own late pro¬ 
prietorship ; and my position was too nice and ticklish to make 
any reference to it, advisable on my part. 

When we got to the place of rest, which was about noon, we 
found several of the brotherhood already assembled, most of 
whom were instantly taken aside by Foster, Webber, and one 
or two others, who ruled with them, and underwent an exami¬ 
nation as to what they had done or were in preparation to do. 
For my part I had nothing to do but saunter about like many 
others—lie down on the sunny knolls, and tumble among the 
yellow leaves, lacking employment. This was no pleasurable 
exercise for one who had in his heart such an unappeasable 
anxiety as was then pervading mine, and which I could scarce 
keep from exhibition. Meantime, I could see men coming and 
going on every side; the persons seeming quite as multiformed 
and particolored as the business was diverse in character in 
which they were engaged. While I gazed upon them without 
particular interest, my eyes were drawn to a group of three 
persons who now approached the valley from a pass through 
the two hills that rose before me. At the distance where I lay, 
I could not distinguish features, but there was an air and man¬ 
ner about them, which, in two of the party, compelled my clo¬ 
sest attention. The horses which they rode seemed also to be 
familiar; and with more earnestness of feeling than I can now 
describe, or could then account for, I continued to gaze upon 
them, as, without approaching much nigber to where I lay, they 
continued their progress forward to where Foster and Webber 
were in the habit of receiving their followers. But, at length, 
overcome by strange surmises, I sprang to my feet, and shading 
my eyes with my hands, endeavored to made out the parties. 
The next moment they disappeared behind the knoll, and, with 
my anxiety still unsubdued, I threw myself again upon the 
ground, and strove with my impatience as well as I could. 
Perhaps a full hour elapsed when I saw the three re-emerge 
from behind the knoll, and come out into the valley. They 
were followed by Foster, who conducted them a little aside and 



THE AFFAIR GROWS MORE INTRICATE. 365 

the four seated themselves together for a while, on the side of 
the hills; after a brief space, Foster left them and came toward! 
me. He threw himself down beside me, with an air of weariness;. 

“Well, Williams, you seem to take the world easily. Here 
you lie, stretched at length upon the ground, as if it had no 
insects, and looking up to the skies as if they were never shad¬ 
owed by a cloud. For my part I see nothing but insects and 
worms along the earth, and nothing but clouds in heaven. 
This comes from the nature of our pursuits, and to speak a 
truth, I sometimes see a beauty in virtue which I have never 
been able to see in man. I almost think, if circumstances 
would let me, that I would steal away, like poor Eberly, from 
our comrades, and try to do a safer and an humbler sort of busi¬ 
ness, among better reptiles than we now work with.” 

This speech, if meant to deceive, did not deceive me. 

“ You would soon long to return, Foster, to your present com¬ 
panions and occupations, or I greatly mistake your temper,” 
was my reply. “Your ambition is your prevailing principle— 
to sway, your leading object—to be great, to have distinction, 
is the predominating passion of your heart.” 

My reply was intended merely to flatter him, and it had its 
effect. He paused for an instant, then said, with a smile:— 

“ And you would add, Williams, that, like Milton’s devil, I 
am not at all scrupulous as to the sort of greatness which I aim 
at, or the quality of the instruments with which I wrought.” 

“ And, if I did, Foster, I do not see that the imputation would 
do you any discredit. Men are pretty much alike wherever we 
find them, and there are virtuous monsters no less than vicious 
ones. Circumstances, after all, make the chief differences in 
the characters of mankind ; and many a saint in white, born in 
my condition, would have cut many more throats tjian it’s my 
hope ever to do. To rule man is to rule man—any inquiry as 
to the moral differences between those you rule and those you 
rule by, is a waste of thought, since the times, and the seasons, 
the winds and the weather, or a thousand differences which 
seem equally unreal and shadowy, are the true causes of the 
vices of one class and the virtues of another. A planter pays 
his debts, and is liberal if he makes a good crop—he fails in 
both respects if his crop fails; and the creditor denounces him 


356 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


as a rogue, a id sells liis property under the hammer of a sher¬ 
iff*, while the church frowns upon him from the moment he 
ceases to drop his Mexican in the charity hat. Saints and 
devils are pretty much the same people, if the weather prevails 
with equal force in their favor; but when the wind changes 
and blights the crop of the one, and ripens that of the other, ten 
to one, the first grows to be a general benefactor and is blessed 
by all, while the other is driven from society as a miserable 
skunk, whom it is mere charity to kick out of existence. You 
should not bother your head in wishing for better followers or 
a dominion less questionable. If you have fifteen hundred 
men willing to fight and die for you, and not minding the laws 
on the subject, you are a better and a greater man than the 
governor of Mississippi, who, do his best, can not command 
fifteen hundred votes. To my mind, it is clear that yours is the 
greater distinction.” 

“ That is true; and yet, Williams, what is distinction, indeed, 
but a sort of solitude — a dreary eminence, which, though we 
may behold many laboring at all seasons to scramble up its 
side, how few do we see able to occupy it, how much more few 
the number to keep it. My eminence, imposing as it may seem 
to you, is at best very insecure. I have rivals — some who seek 
to restrain me and to crush my power, by lopping off my best 
friends at every opportunity, and on the slightest pretences. 
These I am bound to save, yet I do so at great peril to myself. 
I risk my own rule, nor my rule only — I risk my life daily, in 
Ibis connection, by seeking to save, as I am resolute always to 
do, the friend, however wanting in other respects, who has 
proved true to my desires and cause.” 

I saw which way these remarks tended; and resolved, at 
once, to p t ut a satisfactory conclusion to the apprehensions 
which I saw prevailed in the mind of my companion. He was 
obliquely seeking to justify himself for his course in regard to 
Eberly, which he saw that I knew—and, probably, he was 
aiming to discover in how far I might be relied on in sustain¬ 
ing him in any partisan conflict with the rivals of whom he 
spoke, My answer was not without its art; and it fully an- 
s vered its intended purpose. 

“You do no more than you should,” was my reply. “You 


THE AFAIR GROWS MORE INTRICATE. 


857 


are bound to succor your friends even against the laws of your 
comrades, since they risk the peril of these laws in serving you. 
I understand your difficulty. Indeed, it did not need that you 
should declare it to me, in order to make me know it. I had 
not been an hour in your camp on the Sipsy before I saw the 
secret strife which was going on; and, I may say, Foster, once- 
for all, you may count upon me to sustain you against any 
rival that may be raised up in opposition to your just rule from 
among the confederates. Count on me, I say, to support you 
against Webber and his clan, for it strikes me that he is the fel¬ 
low you have most to fear.” 

“You are right!” he said, grasping my hand nervously — 
“ you are quite right, and I admire your keenness of observa¬ 
tion, only less than the warmth of your personal regard for me. 
Webber is, indeed, the person who is now plotting secretly 
against me. There will be a trial of strength between us in 
the council of twelve to-morrow — and I shall defeat him there, 
though by so small a vote that it will tend to stimulate him to 
still greater exertions, and to make him more inveterate in his 
hostility, which he has still grace enough to seek to hide.” 

He would probably have gone on much further in the devel¬ 
opment of the miserable strife that followed hard upon his state, 
but that a movement of my own interrupted him. My eyes had 
been for some time turned watchfully upon the group of three 
persons to which I have already called the reader’s attention. 
They had left the little knoll on which they seated themselves 
when Foster first emerged with them from the place of confe¬ 
rence, and had advanced somewhat further into the valley, and 
consequently rather nearer to my place of repose, which was 
half way down one of the hills out of which it was scooped. 
This approach enabled me to observe them better ; and, as 
they moved about among another party, who were pitching 
quoits, my eyes gradually distinguished their persons first, and 
at length their features. This discovery led to my interruption 
of Foster’s developments. What was my consternation and 
wonder to recognise John Hurdis in one, and Ben Pickett in 
another of this group. With difficulty I kept myself from 
leaping upright—my finger was involuntarily extended toward 
them 


<*58 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


“ What see you V* demanded Foster, looking in the same di¬ 
rection. His demand was a sufficient warning foi me to be 
cautious, and yet, for the life of me, I could not forbear the 
question in reply. 

“ Who are those ?” 

* “ What, the pitchers ?” 

“Yes! yes! and their companions—the lookers-on.” 

“One of the pitchers is a fellow named Hatfield—a close 
friend of Webber, and one of our most adroit spies; he is the 
fellow in green; the other two are common strikers , who will 
set out on an expedition to-night. They are exceedingly ex¬ 
pert liorse-stealers, and the people near Columbus will hear of 
them before they are two days older—the tallest one is named 
Jones, the other Baker.” 

“And how do they incline—toward you or Webber?” was 
an indifferent question, almost too indifferently put to answer 
the purpose of a disguise to my real curiosity, for which it was 
intended. I heard his answer impatiently, and then, with lips 
that trembled, I demanded— 

“ And who are the three lookers-on ? I have not seen them 
before ! They were not with us on the Sipsy last night ?” 

“No; they have just come from down the river. The smal¬ 
ler fellow is one of our keenest emissaries, and, perhaps, one of 
our bravest men. He has just brought up the two men who are 
with him—” 

“ What! as prisoners V* I exclaimed, in my impatience. 

“ Prisoners, indeed ! No. What should we do with prison¬ 
ers ] They belong to us. They are our men.” 

“ Why, then, do you say he brought them up V* 

“ This is the affair. I have just finished their examination. 
It appears that the large, fat fellow, is rather a rich young 
planter somewhere in Marengo. He had a brother with whom 
he had a quarrel. This brother set off with a companion some 
weeks ago for the ‘ nation,’ where they proposed to enter lands 
The elder brother avails himself of this opportunity to revenge 
himself for some indignities put upon him by the younger, and 
despatches after him the fellow in homespun, whom you see be¬ 
side him, his hands in his breeches pockets. Webber, it appears, 
about the same time, laid a trap for the two travellers, one of 


THE AFFAIR GROWS MORE INTRICATE. 359 

whom fell into it very nicely—the other broke off and got 
away. They pursued him, but they must have lost him, but 
for the timely aid of the chap in homespun, who, lying in wait, 
shot down the fugitive, and then made off to his employer. Ac¬ 
cording to our general plan, an emissary was sent after the mur¬ 
derer, and, in securing him, the secret of the brother was dis 
covered. In this way, both have been secured, and are now 
numbered among our followers.” 

I have abridged Foster’s narrative, in order to avoid telling 
a story twice. Here was a dreadful discovery. My stupid 
amazement can not be described. I was literally overcome. 
Foster saw my astonishment, and inquired into its cause. My 
reply was, perhaps, a sufficient reason for my astonishment, 
though it effectually concealed the true one. 

“ Great God ! can this he possible 1 His own brother V* 

“ Even so. Neither you nor I would have done such a thing, 
bad as we may be held by well-ordered society. The fellow 
seems but a poor creature after all, and could hardly stand du¬ 
ring our examination. Of such creatures, however, we make 
the most useful, if not the most daring members. We will let 
him go back to Marengo after to-morrow, and be a pillar of the 
church, which, I think it not improbable, he will instantly join, 
if, indeed, he be not already a member. The other fellow, who 
is called Pickett, takes to us with a relish, and Webber has found 
him a place to squat somewhere on the banks of the Big Warrior. 
But, a truce to this. Here Webber approaches. Do not 
forget, Williams—and, I am your friend. We must act togeth¬ 
er for mutual benefit. Mum, now.” 

Webber drew nigh, bringing with him the emissary who had 
gone after Pickett and John Hurdis. They remained with the 
pitchers, among whom, I may add, Pickett was, at this time, in¬ 
corporated, and working away as lustily as the most expert. 
But I had no time allowed me to note either his, or the labors 
of John Hurdis. My attention was instantly challenged by 
Webber, who, unless angry, was not a man of many vords. 

“Get yourself in readiness, Williams; I will set you on the 
track in an hour, and show you a part of the route.” 

I proceeded to obey, and it was not long, as may be conjec¬ 
tured, before 1 was properly mounted for that journey which 


860 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


was to eventuate in the rescue of my friend’s child from the 
cruel sacrifice which was at hand. Webber and myself set off 
together. Foster shook my hand at parting, and his last phrase 
was one, which, between us, had a meaning beyond that which 
met the ear. 

“ I trust you will find your man, Williams, though he even 
puts the Ohio between us. Let us see you hack soon.” 

1 was annoyed by the searching stare of the keen-eyed emis¬ 
sary. His eyes were never once taken from my countenance, 
from the moment of my introduction to him; and, I am sure, 
that he had some indistinct remembrance of me, though, fortu¬ 
nately, not of a sufficiently strong character to do more than 
confuse him. I dreaded discovery every moment, but, though 
watching me keenly to the last, with a most unpleasant per¬ 
tinacity of stare, he suffered me to ride away without the ut¬ 
terance of those suspicions which I ’ )oked momently to heai 
spoken. 


TROUBLES AT GRAFTON LODGE. 


3G1 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

TROUBLES AT GRAFTON LODGE. 

“ Cold tidings, sir, 

I bring you, of new sorrows. You have need 
To make division of your wide estate, 

And parcel out your stores. Take counsel, sir, 

How you will part from life; for ’tis my fear 

That you must part from hope, which life more needs, 

Than the dull fare it feeds on .”—Knight Errant. 

We did not delay, having now put ourselves in readiness, but. 
after a few brief words of parting, we left Foster and the emis¬ 
sary, whose searching eyes I was truly anxious to escape from. 
That fellow’s stare gave me more uneasiness, and a greater 
idea of the danger that I ran, than any other one circumstance 
since my connection with the ruffians. Foster did not let me 
leave him without giving me some expressive glances. I could 
see that he was desirous of saying something to me, which, I 
fancied, must concern Eberly; but we had no opportunity for 
a private word after Webber joined us, and to make an oppor¬ 
tunity was wishing far more than I desired or Foster was pre¬ 
pared for. Off we went at full gallop, and we were soon out 
of sight of the encampment, and rough hills were momently 
rising between us. In the course of a quarter of an hour, I 
found myself going once more over the very spot where we 
found the body of William Carrington. I shuddered involun¬ 
tarily as my eyes rested upon it; the next moment I saw the 
glance of Webber fixed curiously on the same spot, and a slight 
smile played upon his lips, as he caught my look of inquiry. 

“A tall fellow was tumbled here only the other day,” he 
said, with an air of indifference that vexed me “ who might 
have been alive and kicking now, if his heels had been less 
active.” 


16 


362 


RICHARD HURD IS. 


I now drew nigher, and pretended a curiosity to hear the 
story, but he baffled my desire as he replied— 

“Not now : another time, when we are more at leisure, I’ll 
tell you stories of what I’ve seen and know, to make you open 
your eyes much wider than you do now. But here we reach 
the road, the ‘ Day-Blind’ as they call it, for it’s so deep and 
narrow that there’s always a shade over it. This road, taking 
the left-hand fork, when you get on a mile farther, takes you 
direct to Grafton’s. You’ll see the avenue leading to the lodge, 
to the right, and a pretty place enough it is. You can lie to¬ 
night at a house which you’ll see two miles after you pass Graf¬ 
ton’s, where you’ll find two of our people. Give them the first 
two signs, and they’ll know who you are, and provide you with 
any help you may call for. But the places which you must 
watch in particular are the two avenues to the lodge — the front 
and rear. There is a thick wood before the back avenue, where 
we’ve got one of our men watching now. You must relieve him 
and send him to me instantly. He will not need you to urge 
him to full speed if you will only remember to tell him that ‘ the 
saddle wants nothing but the stirrups.’ He’ll understand that, 
and come.” 

“ But what does that mean !” I demanded. 

“Oh, nothing much—it’s a little matter between us, that 
doesn’t at all concern the fraternity.” 

“ What! have you secrets which the club is not permitted to 
share ?” 

“ Yes, when they do not conflict with our laws. An affair 
with a petticoat is a matter of this sort.” 

“ And yet such is Eberly’s affair.” 

“ True; but Eberly would sacrifice all to the petticoat, and 
for that we punish him. He might go after a dozen women if 
he pleased, and have a seraglio like the Grand Turk, and none 
of us would say him nay, if he did not allow them to play Deli¬ 
lah with him, and get his secret. But listen, now, while I give 
you the necessary information.” 

Here we stopped a while, and he led me into the woods, 
where he gave a brief account of Grafton family and lodge, in¬ 
formed me of one or two hiding-places of Eberly, and even told 
me at what hour I might look to see him arriving at the avenue. 


TROUBLES AT GRAFTON LODGE. 


363 


So keen had been his watch, and that of his creatures, upon the 
doomed fugitive, that, as I afterward discovered, he was not 
only correct to the very letter in what he told me, but he also 
knew every movement which his victim made ; and there had 
not been a day, for the three months preceding, in which he 
had not been able at any time to lay hands upon him. Indeed, 
had the directions of Webber been followed while in the Sipsy 
swamp, Eberly could not by any possibility have escaped, un¬ 
less through my evasion of the murderous task which had been 
then assigned me. I need not add that such would have been 
the case. Regarding the unhappy youth as not undeserving of 
punishment, I had yet no desire to become his executioner. I 
had taken enough of this duty on my hands already ; and my late 
discovery, touching John Hurdis, had increased the solemnity 
of the task to a degree which put the intensity of my excite 
ment beyond all my powers of description. I could now only 
reflect that I had sworn in the chamber of death, and in the 
presence of the dead, to execute the eternal sentence of justice 
upon the person of my own brother. When Webber left me in 
that wood, I renewed the terrible oath before Heaven. 

But to my present task. I rode forward as I had been coun¬ 
selled, and soon came in sight of the well-known lodge, which, 
whatever might be my wish, I did not dare to enter, until I 
had first got out of the way of the spy whom Webber kept 
upon it, and whom he requested me to send to him. Avoiding 
the entrance accordingly, I fell into a by-path, which ran round 
the estate, and whistling a prescribed tune, as I approached the 
back avenue, I had the satisfaction to hear the responsive note 
from the wood opposite. Who should present himself at my 
summons, but my ancient foe, the Tuscaloosa gambler whom 
they called George ? I felt the strongest disposition to take 
the scoundrel by the throat, in a mood betwixt merriment and 
anger; but there was a stake of too much importance yet to be 
played for, and with praiseworthy patience I forebore. Subdu¬ 
ing my voice, and restraining my mood to the proper pitch, I 
introduced myself to him in the prescribed form. I showed him 
the first two signs of the club — the sign of the striker , and the 
sign of the feeler — the first being that of the common horse- 
thief or mail-robber; the other that which empowers a member 


364 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


to probe the nature of the man he meets, and secure him, if he 
thinks he can, to the uses of the brotherhood. I gave him my 
assumed name, and the history of my membership, and then 
sent him on his way — happy to get him out of mine—to the 
brothers in the encampment. I waited with impatience till he 
had gone fairly out of sight; then, with a full heart, and a bosom 
bounding once more with freedom, I entered the ^avenue, and 
hurried forward to the dwelling of my friend. 

My disguise was quite as complete in concealing me from 
Colonel Grafton as it had been in hiding me from my foes. It 
was with difficulty I persuaded him to know me. His first 
words, after he became convinced of my identity, were — 

“And the poor girl Emmeline? How did she stand your 
tidings ?” 

“ She is dead.” I told him all the particulars; and accounted 
for the disguise in which I appeared, by telling what were the 
novel duties which I had undertaken. 

“You are a bold man — a very bold man, Mr. Hurdis. And 
how far have you been successful ?” 

Briefly, I related to him my meeting with Foster; the success 
of my plans ; his revelations to me; and the progress of events 
until I came to the encampment in the Sipsy swamp. These 
he listened to with an intense interest, and frequently inter¬ 
rupted me to relate little incidents within his own knowledge, 
which, strange and unaccountable before, found an easy solu¬ 
tion when coupled with such as I related. When I had told 
him thus far, I came to an uneasy halt. He had evidently no 
apprehension that he could be interested further in such a nar¬ 
rative than as a good citizen and a public magistrate. Finding 
me at a pause, he thus spoke : — 

“ And you left these rascals in the Sipsy; you have come 
now for assistance, have you not?” 

“ You are right, colonel: I have come to get what assistance 
I can to bring them to punishment. But I left them not in the 
Sipsy; they are nigher than you think for, and much more con¬ 
veniently situated for a surprise.” 

“ Ha ! in the ‘ Day-Blind’ — is it so ? That has long been a 
suspicious place; and, if my conjecture is right, I will do my 
best to ferret them out, and clear it for good and all.” 


TROUBLES AT GRAFTON LODGE 


365 


“ They are near it, if not in it,” was my reply. I proceeded 
to describe the place, which he very well knew. 

“ In three days more, Hurdis, I shall be ready for the hunt. 
We can not conveniently have it sooner, since a little domestic 
matter will, for the next day or two, take up all my attention; 
and I must forget the magistrate for a brief period in the father. 
You are come in season, my friend, for our family festivities. 
My daughter, you must know — 

“ Let me stop you, Colonel Grafton — I do know; and I trust 
you will not regard the bearer of ill tidings as responsible for 
the sorrow’ which he brings. Your daughter, you w r ould tell 
me, is to be married to Mr. Clifton.” 

“ Yes—it is that. But what ill tidings?” 

“ Mr. Clifton is with these ruffians; I saw him in the Sipsy 
swamp.” 

“ What! a prisoner V* 

I shook my head. 

“ Nothing worse, I trust. They have not murdered him, Mr. 
Hurdis ? He lives V* 

“ He lives, but is no prisoner, Colonel Grafton. It is my 
sorrow to be compelled to say that he was with them volunta¬ 
rily when I saw him.” 

“ How ! I really do not understand you.” 

I hurried over the painful recital, which he heard in speech¬ 
less consternation. The strong man failed before me. He 
leaned with a convulsive shudder against the mantel-place, and 
covered his face w’ith his hands. While he stood thus, his 
daughter entered the room, with a timid and sweet smile upon 
her lips, but shrunk back the moment that she saw me. As yet, 
none of the family but Colonel Grafton himself knew who I was. 
The father turned as he heard her voice. 

“Julia,” he said, “my daughter—go to your thamber — re¬ 
main there till I send for you. Ho not leave it.” 

His voice was mournful and husky, though he strove to hide 
his emotion. She saw it, and prepared to obey. He led her 
by the hand to the door, looking back at me the while; and, 
when there, she whispered something in his ears. H& strove 
to smile as he heard it, but the effort was a feeble and ineffec¬ 
tual one. 


366 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


u Go to your mother, my child : tell her that it matters noth¬ 
ing. And do you keep your chamber. Do not come down 
stairs till I call you.” 

The girl looked at him with some surprise, but she did not 
utter the question which her eyes sufficiently spoke. Silently 
she left the room, and he returned to me instantly. 

“ Hurdis, you have given me a dreadful blow; and I can not 
doubt that what you told me you believe to be the truth. But 
may you not be deceived ? It is everything to me and my 
child, if you can think so; it is more important, if you are not, 
that I should be certified of the truth. You saw Clifton in the 
swamp with these villains : that I doubt not. It may be, too, 
that you heard them claim him as a colleague. This they 
might do — such villains would do anything; they might claim 
me as well as you; for the horse-thief and the murderer would 
not scruple to rob the good name from virtue, and murder the 
fair reputation of the best of us. They have sought to destroy 
me thus already. Tell me, then, on what you ground youi 
belief; give me the particulars. It may be, too, that Clifton, 
if he leagues with them at all, does so for some purpose like 
your own.” 

How easy would it have been to deceive the father—to per¬ 
suade him to believe anything which might have favored his 
desires, though against the very face of reason and reflection! 

“ I would I could answer you according to your wish, but I 
can not. I have told you nothing but the truth — what I know 
to be the truth—if the confessions of Clifton himself, in my 
hearing, and to the leader of this banditti, can be received in 
evidence.” 

His own confessions? Great God! can it be possible? — 
But I hear you. Go on, Mr. Hurdis — tell me all. But take a 
chair, I pray you; be seated, if you please, for I must.” 

He strode over the floor toward a seat, with a slowness of 
movement which evidently proceeded from a desire to conceal 
the feebleness of body which he certainly felt, and to a certain 
extent exhibited. He sunk into the chair, his hands clasped, 
and drooping between his knees, while his head was bent for¬ 
ward, in painful earnestness, as I proceeded in my story. I 
related, step by step, all the subsequent particulars in my own 


TROUBLES AT GRAFTON LODGE. 


367 


narrative, suppressing those only which did not concern Clif¬ 
ton. He heard me patiently, and without interruption, to the 
end. A single groan only escaped him as I concluded; and 
one brief exclamation declared for whose sake only, all his suf¬ 
fering was felt — 

“My poor, poor Julia !” 

Well might this be his exclamation; and as it came from 
his lips, while his eyes were closed, and his head fell forward 
upon his breast, I could see the cherished hopes of a life van¬ 
ishing with the breath of a single moment. That daughter was 
the pride of his noble heart. Nobly had he taught—dearly 
had he cherished her; with a fond hand he had led her along 
the pleasant paths of life, securing her from harm, and toiling 
with equal care, for her happiness. And all for what ? My 
heart joined with his, as I thought over these things, and it 
was with difficulty I could keep my lips from saying after his 
own — “Poor, poor Julia!” 

At this moment a servant entered the apartment. 

“ Mr. Clifton, sir !” 

“ Ha ! comes he then !” was the sudden exclamation of the 
father, starting from his chair, and, in a single instant, throwing 
aside the utter prostration of soul which appeared in his fea¬ 
tures, and which now gave place to a degree of energy and res¬ 
olution, which fully spoke for the intense fire which had been 
kindled in his heart. 

“ Show him in !” 

The servant disappeared. 

“ This night, Mr. Hurdis, this man was to have married my 
daughter. You have saved us just in time. You speak of his 
repentance—you have almost striven to excuse him — but it 
will not answer. I thank you — thank you from my heart — 
lhat you have saved us from such connection. Step now into 
this chamber. You shall hear what he will say — whether he 
will seek to carry out his game of deception; and, to the last, 
endeavor to consummate by villany, what his villany had so 
successfully begun. It is but right that you should hear his 
answers to my accusation. He may escape the vengeance of 
his brother scoundrels — but me he shall riot escape. He comes 
— into that chamber, Mr. Hurdis, 1 must beg you to retire— 


368 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


bear with me if I seem rude in hurrying you thus. My misery 
must excuse me, if I am less heedful than I should be of ordi¬ 
nary politeness.” 

Thus, with that nice consideration of character which made 
him somewhat a precisian in manners, he strove to forget his 
own feelings in his effort to avoid offending mine. At that mo¬ 
ment I could have forgiven him a far greater display of rude¬ 
ness than that for which he apologized. When I looked upon 
the face of that father, solicitous to the last degree for the wel¬ 
fare of the beloved child of whom such care had been taken, 
and thought upon the defeat of all his hopes, and possibly all 
of hers, which had followed my narration, I could not but won¬ 
der at the iron strength of soul which could enable him to bear 
his disappointment so bravely. 

He conducted me into the little room, to which for the pres* 
ent he had consigned me, and taking from it a small mahogany 
box, which I readily conceived to be a case of pistols, he re 
turned instantly to the apartment which I left, where, a moment 
after, he was joined by Clifton. 


CAPTIVITY. 


869 


CHAPTER L. 

CAPTIVITY. 

“ To what gulfs 

A eiDgle deviation from the track 
Of human duties, leads ever those who claim 
The homage of mankind.”— Sardanapalus. 

“ Colonel Grafton.” 

“ Mr. Clifton,” were the simple forms of address employed 
by the two on first encountering. 

“ You are surprised to see me so soon, Colonel Grafton,” was 
the somewhat abrupt speech of Clifton the next minute. 

“ Surprised ! not a whit, sir,” was the quick reply. “ You 
were looked for.” 

“ Looked for, sir! Ah ! yes, of course, I was expected to 
come, but not yet, sir—not for some hours. You looked for 
me, indeed, but you scarcely looked for the person who now 
seeks you; and when you know the business which brings me, 
Colonel Grafton, you will not, I am afraid, hold me so welcome 
as before.” 

“ Why should you be afraid, Mr. Clifton ? Believe me, you 
were never more welcome than at this very moment — never!” 
was the grave and emphatic reply. “ You seem surprised, sir, 
that I should say so, but wherefore 1 Are you surprised that I 
should promptly welcome the man who seeks to do so much 
honor to my family as to become one of it ? Why do you look 
on me so doubtingly, Mr. Clifton ? Is there anything so strange 
in what I say V* 

“No, sir, nothing, unless it be in the manner of your saying 
it. If you speak, Colonel Grafton, in sincerity, you add to the 
weight of that humility which already presses me to the earth 

16 * 


370 


RICHARD HTTRDIS. 


— if in derision — if with a foreknowledge of what I come to 
say — then, I must only acknowledge the justice of your scorn 
and submit myself to your indignation.’* 

“ Of what you came to say, Mr. Clifton ?” slowly replied the 
half-hesitating listener. “ Speak it out then, sir, I pray you — 
let me hear what you came to speak. And in your revelations 
do not give me credit for too great a foreknowledge, or you 
may make your story too costive for the truth. Proceed, sir—• 
I listen.” 

“ You seem already to have heard something to my disad¬ 
vantage, Colonel Grafton. It is my misfortune that you have 
not heard all that you might have heard—all that you must 
hear. It is my misery that my lips alone must tell it.” 

The unfortunate young man paused for an instant, as if under 
the pressure of emotions too painful for speech. He then 
resumed: — 

“ I come, sir, to make a painful confession; to tell you that 
I have imposed upon you, Colonel Grafton—dreadfully imposed 
upon you—in more respects than one.” 

“ Go on, sir.” 

“ My name, sir, in the first place, is not Clifton, but—” 

“ No matter, sir, what it is ! Enough, on that point, that it 
is not what you call it. But the letters, sir — what of them? 
How came you by letters of credit and introduction from my 
known and tried friends in Virginia ?” 

“ They were forged, sir.” 

“Well, I might have known that without asking. The one 
imposition fairly implies the other.” 

“ But not by me, Colonel Grafton.” 

“ They were used by you, and you knew them to be forged, 
sir. If your new code of morality can find a difference between 
the guilt of making the lie, and that of employing it when 
made, I shall be informed, sir, if not pleased. Go on with your 
story, which seems to concern me; and, considering the manner 
of its beginning, the sooner you bring it to an end the better. 
What, may I ask, did you propose to yourself to gain by this 
imposition V* 

“ At first, sir, nothing. I was the creature—the base instru¬ 
ment of the baser malice of another. Without any object my- 


CAPTIVITY. 371 

self, at first, I was weak enough to labor thus criminally for 
the unworthy objects of another.” 

“Ha! indeed! For another. This is well — this is better 
and better, sir; but go on—go on.” 

“ But when my imposition, sir, had proved so far successful 
as to bring me to the knowledge and the confidence of your 
family—when I came to know the treasure you possessed in 
the person of your lovely daughter —” 

“ Stay, sir — not a word of her. Her name must not pass 
your lips in my hearing, unless you would have me strike you 
to my feet, for your profanity and presumption. It is wonder¬ 
ful to me, now, how I can forbear.” 

“Your blow, though it crushed me into the earth, could not 
humble me more, Colonel Grafton, than my own conscience has 
already done. I am not unwilling that you should strike. I 
came here this day to submit, without complaint or prayer, 
to any punishment which you might deem it due to your 
injured honor to inflict. But, as a part of the reparation which 
I propose to make to you, it is my earnest desire that you 
should hear me out.” 

“ Reparation, sir—reparation ! Do you talk to me of repara¬ 
tion—you that have stolen into my bosom, like an insidious 
serpent, and tainted the happiness, and poisoned all the springs 
of joy which I had there. Tell your story, sir—say all that 
you deem essential to make your villany seem less, but do not 
dare to speak of reparation for wrongs that you can not repair 
— wounds that no art of yours, artful though you have proved 
yourself, can ever heal.” 

“ I do not hope to repair—I feel that it is beyond my power 
to heal them. I do not come for that. I come simply to de¬ 
clare the truth—to acknowledge the falsehood—and, in for¬ 
bearing to continue a course of evil, and in professing amend¬ 
ment for the future, to do what I can for the atonement of what 
is evil in the past. To repair my wrongs to you and yours, 
Colonel Grafton, is not within my hope. If it were, sir, my 
humility would be less than it is, and, perhaps, your indulgence 
greater.” 

“ Do not trust to that, sir—do not trust to that. But we will 
spare unnecessary words. Your professions for the future aro 


372 


RICHARD HUIIDIS. 


wise and well enough; it is to be hoped that you will be suf¬ 
fered to perform them. At present, however, our business is 
with what is past, of evil, not with what is to come, of good. 
You say that you were set on by another to seek my confidence 
—that another prepared the lies by which you effected your 
object. Who was that other ? Who was that master-spirit to 
v hich your own yielded such sovereign control over truth and 
reason, and all honesty 1 Answer me that, if you would prove 
your contrition.” 

“ Pardon me, sir, but I may not tell you that. I may not 
betray the confidence of another, even though I secured your 
pardon by it.” 

“ Indeed ! But your principles are late and reluctant. This 
is what is called 1 honor among thieves.’ You could betray my 
honor, and the confidence of a man of honor, but you can not 
betray the confidence of a brother rogue.” 

“ My wrong to you, Colonel Grafton, I repent too deeply to 
suffer myself to commit a like wrong against another, however 
unworthy he may be. Let me accuse myself, sir; let me, I 
pray you, declare all my own offences, and yield myself up to 
your justice, but do not require me to betray the secrets of 
another.” 

“What! though that other be a criminal — though that othei 
be the outlaw from morals, which you should be from society, 
and trains his vipers up to sting the hands that take them into 
the habitations of the unwary and the confiding! Your sense 
of moral justice seems to be strangely confounded, sir.” 

“It may be—I feel it is, Colonel Grafton, but I am bound 
to keep this secret, and will not reveal it. It is enough that I 
am ready to suffer for the offence to which I have weakly and 
basely suffered myself to be instigated.” 

“ You shall suffer, sir; by the God of Heaven you shall suffer, 
if it be left in this old arm to inflict due punishment for your 
treachery. You shall not escape me. The sufferings of my 
child shall determine yours. Every pang which she endures 
shall drive the steel deeper into your vitals! But proceed, sir, 
you have more to say. You have other offences to narrate—I 
will hear you.” 

“ I feel that you will not heed my repentance. I know, 


CAPTIVITY. 


873 


too, why your indulgence should be beyond my hope. I do not 
ask forgiveness, which I know it to be impossible that you 
should grant; I only pray that you will now believe me, Colo¬ 
nel Grafton, for before Heaven I will tell you nothing but the 
truth.” 

“ Go, on, sir, tell your story; your exhortation is of little 
use, for the truth needs no prayer for its prop. It must stand 
without one or it is not truth. As for my belief, that can not 
effect it. Truth is as certainly secure from my doubts, as I am 
sorry to think she has been foreign to your heart for a long 
season. If you have got her back there, you are fortunate, 
thrice fortunate. You will do well if you can persuade her to 
remain. Go on, go on, sir.” 

“ Your unmeasured scorn, Colonel Grafton, helps to strengthen 
me. It is true, it can not lessen my offence to you and yours, 
but it is no small part of the penalty which should follow them ; 
and holding it such, my punishments grow lighter with every 
moment which I endure them.” 

“ Trust not that. I tell you, William Clifton, or whatever else 
may be your true name—for which I care not—that I have 
that tooth of fire gnawing in my heart, which nothing, perhaps, 
short of all the blood which is in yours can quench or satisfy. 
Think not that I give up my hope of revenge as I consent to 
hear you. The delay but whets the appetite. I but seek in 
thought for the sort of punishment which would seem most 
fitting to your offence.” 

“ I will say nothing, Colonel Grafton, to arrest or qualify it 
— let your revenge be full. The blood will not flow more freely 
from my heart, when your hand shall knock for it, than does 
my present will, in resignation, to your demand for vengeance. 
Let me only, I pray you, say a few words, which it seems to 
me will do you no offence to hear, and which I feel certain it 
will be a great relief to me to speak. Will you hear me, sir V* 

The humility of the guilty youth seemed not without its 
effect on the heated, but noble old man, who replied promptly : 

“Surely, sir—God forbid that I should refuse to hear the 
criminal. Go on — speak.” 

“ I am come of good family, Colonel Grafton ——” began the 
youth. 


374 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


“Certainly — I doubt not that. Never rogue yet that did 
not.” 

A pause ensued. The voice of the youth was half stifled, 
as with conflicting emotions, when he endeavored to speak 
again. But he succeeded. 

“I am an only son—a mother—a feeble, infirm mother- 
looked to me for assistance and support. A moment of dread¬ 
ful necessity pressed upon us, and in the despair and appre¬ 
hension which the emergency brought with it to my mind, I 
committed an error—a crime, Colonel Grafton—I appropriated 
the money of another!” 

“ A fit beginning to so active a life—but go on.” 

“ Not to my use, Colonel Grafton — not to my use, nor for any 
pleasure or appetite of my own, did I apply that ill-got spoil. 
It was to save from suffering and a worse evil, the mother which 
had borne me.” 

“ I believe, Mr. Clifton, in no such necessity,” was the stem 
reply. “ In a country like ours, no man need steal, nor lie, nor 
cheat. The bread of life is procured with no difficulty by any 
man having his proportion of limbs and sinews, and not too 
lazy and vicious for honest employment. You could surely 
have relieved your parent without a resort to the offence you 
speak of.” 

“True, sir—I might. But I did not know it then—I was 
a youth without knowledge of the world or its resources. 
Brought up in seclusion, and overcome by the sudden terror of 
debt, and the law —” 

“ Which, it seems, has kept you in no such wholesome fear 
to the end of the chapter. Pity for both our sakes that it had 
not. But to make a long story short, Mr. Clifton, and to relieve 
you from the pleasure or the pain of telling it, know, sir, that I 
am acquainted with all, and, perhaps, much more than you are 
willing to relate.” 

“ Indeed, sir—but how—how came you by this knowledge V ’ 

“ That is of no importance, or but little. Not an hour before 
you made your appearance, I received an account of your true 
character and associates — thank Heaven! in sufficient time to 
be saved from the fatal connection into which my child had so 
nearly fallen.” 


CAPTIVITY. 37£ 

“ She should not have fallen, Colonel Grafton,” said Clifton 
solemnly. “ I came on purpose to declare the truth, sir.” 

“ So I believe, Mr. Clifton; and it is well for you, and, 
perhaps, well for me, that you were so prompt to declare 
the truth when you made your appearance. Had you but 
paused for five minutes—had you lingered in your self-exposure 
— I had put a bullet through your head with as little remorse, 
as I should have shot the wolf which aimed to prey upon my 
little ones. I had put my pistols in readiness for that purpose. 
They are this instant beneath my hands. Nothing but your 
timely development could have saved you from death, and even 
that would not have availed, but that you have shown a degree 
of contrition during your confession, to which I could not shut 
my eyes. Know, sir, that I not only knew of the deception 
practised upon me, but of your connection with the daring 
outlaws who overrun the country; and from whom, by the 
way, you have much more at this moment to fear, than you can 
ever have reason to fear from me. Their emissaries are even 
now in pursuit of you, thirsting for your blood.” 

‘ Colonel Grafton, tell me—I pray you tell me — how know 
you all this.” 

“ Is it not true V 9 

«Ay!—ay! true as gospel, though my lips, though I per¬ 
ished for denying, should never have revealed it.” 

“ What! you would still have kept bond with these outlaws V 9 

‘ No, sir; but I would not have revealed their secrets.” 

“But you shall, sir — you shall do more. You shall guide 
me and others to the place where they keep. You shall help to 
deliver them into the hands of justice.” 

“Never, sir! never !” was the quick reply. 

“ Then you perish by the common hangman, Mr. Clifton,” 
said Colonel Grafton. “ Either you deliver them up to punish¬ 
ment, or you die for your share in their past offences.” 

“Be it so — I can perish, you will find, without fear, though I 
may have lived without honor. Let me leave you now, Colonel 
Grafton—let me pass.” 

“ You pass not here, while I have strength to keep you, sir,” 
said Grafton; and as these words reached my ears, I heard a 
rushing sound, and then a struggle. With this movement, I 


376 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


opened the door, and entered the apartment. They were 
closely grappled as they met my sight, and though it was 
evident enough that Eberly studiously avoided the application 
of his whole force in violence to Grafton, it was not the less 
obvious that he was using it all in the endeavor to elude him, 
and break away. I did not pause a moment to behold the 
strife, but making forward, I grasped the fugitive around the 
body, and lifting him from the floor, laid him, in another instant, 
at full length upon it. This done, I put my knee upon hia 
breast, and presenting my dirk-knife to his throat I exacted 
from him a constrained and sullen submission. 


STRATAGEMS. 


877 


CHAPTER LI. 

STRATAGEMS. 

“The sun has set; 

A grateful evening doth descend upon us, 

And brings on the long night”— Schiller. 

To dispose of liim now was a next consideration, and one Df 
some little difficulty. It was no wish of mine, and certainly 
still less a wish with Colonel Grafton, to hold the unfortunate 
and misguided youth in bondage for trial by the laws. This 
was tacitly understood between us. By the statements of his 
associates, it was clear enough that he had been a profitless 
comrade, doing nothing to earn the applause, or even approval 
of the criminal ; and as little, if we except the mere fact of his 
being connected with such a fraternity, to merit the punishment 
of the laws. His hands had never been stained by blood ; and, 
setting aside his first offence against virtue, and that which 
brought him into such perilous companionship with vice, we 
knew nothing against him of vicious performance. Apart from 
this, the near approximation which he had made toward a union 
with the family of Colonel Grafton, however mortifying such 
an event may have become to his pride, was calculated to pro¬ 
duce a desire in his mind that as little notoriety as possible 
should be given to the circumstances, and even had Eberly been 
more guilty than he was, I, for one, would rather infinitely 
have suffered him to escape, than to subject the poor girl, 
whose affections he had won, to the constant pain which she must 
have felt by the publication of the proceedings against him. 
Even as it was, her trial was painful enough, as well to those 
who witnessed her sufferings, as to the poor heart that was com¬ 
pelled to bear them. Enough of this at present. 

But it was essential at this moment, when it was our design 



378 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


to entrap the heads of the Mystic Brotherhood, that Eberly, 
though we refrained to prosecute him before the proper tribu¬ 
nal, should not be suffered to escape our custody. By his reluc¬ 
tance to accuse, or to act against these outlaws, he evidently 
held for them a degree of regard, which might prompt him, if 
permitted, to apprize them of their danger, even though he may 
have held himself aloof, as he had promised, from all future con¬ 
nection with them. But how and where to secure him was an¬ 
other difficulty for which an answer was not so readily provided. 
To imprison him in the dwelling, in which that very day he was 
to have found his bride, and in which, as yet uninformed of the 
melancholy truth, that unconscious and full-hearted maiden was 
even then preparing to become so, was a necessity of awkward 
complexion; and yet to that necessity we were compelled to 
come. After deliberating upon the matter, with an earnestness 
which left no solitary suggestion unconsidered, the resolution 
was adopted to secure the prisoner in the attic, until our pursuit 
of his comrades was fairly over. This, it was our confident 
hope, would be the case by the close of the day following, and 
only until that time did we resolve that he should be a prisoner. 
His comrades once secured, and his way of flight, it was intend¬ 
ed, should be free. How our determination on this subject was 
evaded and rendered unavailing, the following pages will show. 

His course once resolved upon, and the measures of Colonel 
Grafton were prompt and decisive. 

“ Keep watch upon him here, Hurdis; let him not stir, while 
I prepare Mrs. Grafton with a knowlege of this unhappy busi¬ 
ness. My daughter, too, must know it soon or late, and better 
this hour than the next, since the strife will be the sooner over. 
They must be out of the way when we take him up the stairs 
— out of hearing as out of sight. Once there, I have a favorite 
fellow who will guard him as rigidly as I should myself.” 

He left me, and was gone, perhaps, an hour — it was a tedi¬ 
ous hour to me, in the painful watch that I was compelled to 
keep over the unhappy prisoner. In this time he had commu¬ 
nicated the discovery to both his wife and Julia; and a single 
shriek, that faintly reached our ears, and the hurried pace of 
many feet going to and fro in the adjacent chambers, apprized 
us of the very moment when the soul of the poor maiden was 


STRATAGEMS. 


379 


anguish-stricken by the first intelligence of her hapless situa¬ 
tion. My eye was fixed intently upon the face of Eberly, and 
when that shriek reached us, I could see a smile, which had in 
it something of triumph, overspread his cheek, and, though it 
did not rest there a single moment, it vexed me to behold it. 

“ Do you exult,” I demanded, “ that you have made a victim 
of one so lovely and so young ? Do you rejoice, sir, in the pang 
that you inflict V 9 

“No ! God forbid !” was his immediate answer. “ If it were 
with me now, she should instantly forget not only her present, 
but all sorrows—she should forget that she had ever known so 
miserable a wretch as myself! But is it wonderful that I should 
feel a sentiment of pleasure, to find myself an object of regard 
in the eyes of one so pure—so superior? Is it strange that I 
should rejoice to find that I am not an outcast from all affections, 
as I am from all hopes—that there is one angelic spirit, who 
may yet intercede for me at the bar of Heaven, and pray for, 
and command mercy, though she may not even hope for it on 
earth ?” 

Grafton now returned, and the flush of anger was heightened 
on his face, though I could see a tear even then glistening in 
his eye. 

“ Mr. Clifton,” he said calmly, but peremptorily, “ we must 
secure your person for the night.” 

“My life is at your service, Colonel Grafton — I tender it 
freely. As I have no hopes in life now, I do not care to live. 
But I will not promise to remain bound, if I can break from my 
prison. I came to you of my own free will, without any impulse 
beside; and, though I thought it not unlikely when I came and 
revealed my story, that you would take my life, I had no fear 
that you would constitute yourself my jailer. I am not pre¬ 
pared for bonds.” 

“ Make what distinctions you please,” was the cold reply; 
“ you hear my resolution. It will be my fault if you escape, 
until I myself declare your freedom. I trust that you will not 
render it necessary that we should use force to place you in the 
chamber assigned for you.” 

“ Force!” he exclaimed fiercely, and there was a keen mo¬ 
mentary flashing of the youth’s eye, as he heard these words, 


380 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


that proved him a person to resent as quickly as he fell but 
the emotion soon gave way to another of more controlling influ¬ 
ence. His tone changed to mildness, as he proceeded:— 

“No, sir; no force shall be necessary. Lead me where you 
please. Do with me as you please. I know not whether it 
would not be better and wiser for me, henceforward, to forego 
my own will and wishes altogether. God knoivs it had been 
far better and wiser, had I distrusted them half as much hither¬ 
to as I now distrust them. I had now—but, lead on, sir; con¬ 
duct me as you will, and where you will. I will not trouble 
you longer — even with my despondency. It is base enough to 
be humbled as I am now — I will not further debase myself by 
the idle language of regret. I have put down a boy’s stake in 
the foolish game which I have played—I will bear with its 
loss as a man. 1 will go before you, sir, or follow even as you 
desire. It shall not be necessary to employ violence. I am 
ready.” 

We could not help pitying the youth, as we conducted him 
up stairs into the small garret-room, which had been prepared 
for him. He was evidently of noble stuff at first—naturally 
well fashioned in mind and moral—with instincts, which, but 
for circumstances, would have carried him right—and feelings 
gentle and noble enough to have wrought excellence within 
him, could it have been that he had been blessed with a better 
education, and less doubtful associates, than it was his fortune 
to have found. He certainly rose greatly in my esteem within 
the last two hours, simply by the propriety of his manners, and 
the degree of correct feeling with which he had, without any 
ostentation, coupled their exhibition. Securing the windows 
as well as we could, and placing a sturdy and confidential ser¬ 
vant at the door of the chamber, which was double-locked upon 
him, we descended to the lower apartment, where we imme¬ 
diately proceeded to confer upon the other toils before us. 

“There is some public good,” said Colonel Grafton, with a 
degree of composure, which spoke admirably for the control 
which his mind had over his feelings — “there is some public 
good coming from the personal evil which has fallen to my lot. 
The proposed festival, which was this night to have taken place, 
brings together the very friends, as guests, whom I should have 


STRATAGEMS. 


381 


sought in our proposed adventure to-morrow, and whom it would 
have taken me some time to have hunted up, and got in readi¬ 
ness. Our party was to have been large, and I trust that it 
will be, though the occasion now is so much less loving and at¬ 
tractive than was expected.” 

This was said with some bitterness, and a pause ensued, in 
which Grafton turned away from me and proceeded to the win¬ 
dow. When he returned, he had succeeded quite in oblitera¬ 
ting the traces of that grief which he was evidently unwilling 
that his face should show. He continued :— 

“We shall certainly have some fifteen able-bodied and fear¬ 
less men, not including ourselves; there may he more. Some 
of them will, I am sure, bring their weapons; they have done 
so usually; and, for the rest, I can make out to supply them, I 
think. You shall see I have a tolerable armory, which though 
anything but uniform, can be made to do mischief in the hands 
of men able and willing enough when occasion serves to use it. 
There is a rifle or two, an old musket, two excellent double- 
barrelled guns, and a few pistols, all of which can be made use 
of. You, I believe, are already well provided.” 

I showed him my state of preparation, and he then proceed¬ 
ed :— 

“ I know the region where these fellows harbor, much better 
than you do, and, perhaps, much more intimately than they ima¬ 
gine. My plan is to surprise them by daybreak. If we can 
do this, our fifteen or twenty men will be more than a match 
for their thirty. And then, I trust, we have no less an advan¬ 
tage in the sort of men we bring to the conflict; men of high 
character, and among the most resolute of the surrounding coun¬ 
try. I have no doubt that we shall be able to destroy at least 
one half of them, and disperse the rest. We must strike at 
your master-spirits—your Foster and your Webber — though 
the former, according to your account, seems not without his 
good qualities. The latter is a tough villain, but he fears me, 
deny it as he may. If he did not, having such a feeling toward 
me as he has so openly avowed, he would have drawn trigger 
on me before now. I must endeavor, this time, to wipe out old 
scores, and balance all my accounts with him. These two, and 
one or two more provided for, and we may be content with the 


382 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


dispersion of the rest. I care nothing for the pitiful rascals that 
follow — let them go.” 

But such was not my thought. There was one of these piti¬ 
ful rascals whom it brought the scarlet to my cheek to think on. 
Brother though he was, he was the murderer of William Car¬ 
rington, and I had sworn, and neither he nor Pickett could 
escape, according to my oath. But of this I said nothing to 
Colonel Grafton. I was resolved that John Hurdis should per¬ 
ish, but that he should perish namelessly. There was a family 
pride still working in my breast, that counselled me to be silent 
in respect to him. We proceeded in our arrangements. 

“ There are two fellows, belonging to this clan,” said Grafton, 
“ that lodge, if I recollect rightly what you said, some two miles 
below me.” 

“Yes, at a place called ‘ the Trap-Hole/ if you know such a 
spot; it was described to me so that I could find it easily, hut T 
know nothing of it.” 

“I know it well — it’s an old hiding-place; but I had not 
thought the hovel was inhabited. These fellows must be se¬ 
cured to-night at an early hour. They are spies upon us, I 
doubt not, and will report everything that happens, if they seo 
anything unusual. Certainly, it is our policy to clear our own 
course as well and speedily as possible; and as soon as our 
men come, which will be by dark or before, we will set forth 
as secretly as we may, to take them into custody. This, as you 
have the signs which they acknowledge, can be done without 
risk. You shall go before, and set them at rest, while we sur¬ 
round the house and take them suddenly. They will hardly 
lift weapon when they see our force; and, once in our posses 
sion, we will take a lesson from the book of Master Webber, and 
rope them down in the woods, with a handful of moss in their 
mouths to keep them from unnecessary revelations.” 

Such, so far, was our contemplated plan. It was the most 
direct of any, and, indeed, we hardly had a choice of expedi¬ 
ents. To come upon our enemy by surprise, or in force, was 
all that we could do, having so little time allowed us for prep¬ 
aration of any sort. It was fortunate that we had a man like 
Grafton to manage—a man so well esteemed by the friends he 
led, and so v orthy in all respects of the confidence they put in 


STRATA G Km 


383 


him. As the hour drew nigh, and the looked-for guests began 
to assemble, he rose superior to the paternal situation in which 
he stood, and seemed to suppress the father in the man and 
citizen. He revealed separately to each of his guests the affair 
as it now stood, upon which they had been summoned together, 
then submitted the new requisition which he made upon their 
services, as a friend and magistrate alike. With one voice 
they proclaimed themselves ready to go forth against the com¬ 
mon enemy, and with difficulty were restrained from precipita¬ 
ting the assault; changing the hour to midnight from the dawn. 
This rashness was fortunately overruled—though it could 
scarcely have been thought rashness, if all the men had pos¬ 
sessed an equal knowledge with Colonel Grafton, of the place 
in which the outlaws harbored. To quiet the more impetuous 
among his guests, he led them out after dark, in obedience to 
our previous resolve, to take the two fellows at " the Trap- 
Hole,” and, I may say, in brief, that we succeeded to a tittle 
in making them prisoners just as we had arranged it. Sur¬ 
prise was never more complete. We roped them to saplings 
in a thicket of the woods, filled their mouths with green moss, 
and the arms of which we despoiled them, enabled us the bet 
ter to meet their comrades 


384 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


CHAPTER L11 

ANOTHER VICTIM. 

" Had we never loved so kindly, 

Had we never loved so blindly — 

Never met or never parted, 

We had ne’er been broken-hearted!” — Burns. 

We completed our preparations at an early hour, and by 
midnight were ready to depart on our work of peril. We had 
so arranged it as not to go forth en masse; it was feared that, 
if seen, our array would occasion apprehension, and possibly 
lead to a detection and defeat of all our plans. By twos and 
threes, therefore, our men set forth, at different periods, with 
the understanding that, taking different routes, we were all to 
rendezvous at the “ Day-Blind,” by one o’clock, or two, at far¬ 
thest. The onslaught we proposed to make with the first blush 
of the morning. I remained, with two others, behind with Colo¬ 
nel Grafton, until the designated hour drew nigh; then, with 
emotions exciting in the last degree, and greatly conflicting with 
each other, I mounted my steed, and we took our departure for 
the place agreed on. 

Let us now return, for a few moments, to the unhappy maiden, 
whose bridal-night was so suddenly changed to gloom from fes¬ 
tivity. We were permitted to see nothing of her sorrows. 
When first stricken by the intelligence which her father gave 
of her felon-lover, her grief had shown itself in a single, sudden 
shriek, a fainting-fit, and, for some time after, a complete pros¬ 
tration of all her physical powers. Restorative medicines were 
given her, and it was only when she was believed to be in a 
deep and refreshing slumber, that her mother retired to her own 
apartment. 

But the maiden did not sleep. The medicines had failed to 
work for her that obliyi m, that momentary blindness and for- 


ANOTHER VICTIM. 


385 


getfulness, which they were charitably intended to occasion. 
The desire to relieve her mother’s anxiety, which she witnessed, 
led her to an undoubted effort at composure, and she subdued 
her sorrows so far as to put on the aspect of a quiet, apathetic 
condition, which she was very far from enjoying. She seemed 
to sleep, and, as the hour was late, her mother, availing herself 
of the opportunity, retired for the night, leaving her daughter 
in charge of a favorite nurse, who remained in the apartment. 

Julia, who was no less watchful than suffering, soon discov¬ 
ered that her companion slept. She rose gently, and hurried 
on her clothes. Her very sorrows strengthened her for an 
effort totally inconsistent with her prostration but a little while 
before; and the strange and perilous circumstances in which 
Eberly stood prompted her to a degree of artfulness which was 
alike foreign to her nature and education. The seeming neces¬ 
sity of the case could alone furnish its excuse. She believed 
that the life of the youth was jeoparded by his position. In 
the first feeling of anger, her father had declared him to be lia¬ 
ble to the last punishments of the law, and, in the same breath, 
avowed himself, as an honest magistrate, bound to inflict them. 
She was resolved, if possible, to defeat this resolution, and to 
save the unhappy youth, whom, if she might no longer look 
upon with respect, she, at least, was still compelled to love. 
Without impugning the judgment of her father, she felt the 
thought to be unendurable which told her momently of the ex¬ 
treme peril of the criminal; and, under its impulse, she was 
nerved to a degree of boldness and strength quite unlike the 
submissive gentleness which usually formed the most conspicu¬ 
ous feature in her character and deportment. 

We have already seen that it was no part of Grafton’s desire, 
whatever might be the obnoxiousness of Eberly to the laws, to 
bring him to trial. Though evidently connected with the ban¬ 
ditti that infested the country, and, strictly speaking, liable to 
all the consequences of their crimes, yet the evidence had been 
conclusive to Grafton that the unhappy youth had shared in 
none of their performances. Could he have proved specifically 
any one offence against him, Grafton must have brought him to 
punishment, and would have done so, though his heart writhed 
at its own resolution; but it was with a feeling of relief, if not 

17 


386 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


of pleasure, that he found no such evidence, and felt himself 
morally if not legally freed from the necessity of prosecution, 
which such a knowledge must have brought with it. To secure 
Eberly until his late associates were dispersed or destroyed 
was the simple object of his detention; for, to speak frankly, iu 
was Grafton’s fear that, if suffered to go forth, he might still be 
carried back, by the desperate force of circumstances, to the 
unholy connections from which he had voluntarily withdrawn 
himself. He had no confidence in the avowed resolutions of 
the youth, and deemed it not improbable that, as his repent¬ 
ance seemed originally to have been the result of his attach¬ 
ment to Julia, the legitimate consequence of her rejection would 
be to throw him back upon his old principles and associates. 
But this doubt did injustice to the youth. The evil aspects of 
crime had disgusted him enough, even if the loveliness of vir 
tue had failed to persuade him. His resolution was fixed; and, 
considering his moral claims alone, without reference to the 
exactions of society, it may be safely said that never was Eb¬ 
erly more worthy of the love of Julia Grafton than at the very 
moment when it was lost to him for ever. 

With cautious hands she undid the fastening of her apart¬ 
ment, and, trembling at every step, but still resolute, she as¬ 
cended the stairs which led up to the garret-chambers. In one 
of these Eberly was confined. From this — as there was but a 
single window, to leap from which would have been certain 
death—there was no escape, save by the door, and this was 
securely fastened on the outside, and the key in the possession 
of a faithful negro, to whom Colonel Grafton had given particu¬ 
lar instructions for the safe-keeping of the prisoner. But the 
guardian slept on his post, and it was not difficult for Julia to 
detach the key from where it hung, upon the fore-finger of bis 
outstretched hand: this she did without disturbing him in the 
slightest degree. In another moment she unclosed the door, 
and fearlessly entered the chamber. 

“Julia!” was the exclamation of the prisoner, as, with a fresh 
sentiment of joy and love, he beheld her standing before him. 
“Julia, dear Julia, do I indeed behold you] You have not 
then forgotten—you do not then scorn the wretch who is an 
outcast from all beside ]” 


ANOTHER VICTIM. 387 

He approached her. Her finger waved him back, while sha 
replied, in melancholy accents: — 

“ Clifton, you must fly ! You are in danger—your very life 
is endangered, if you linger here.” 

“ My life ?” cried the criminal, in tones of melancholy de¬ 
spair— “my life? Let them take it! If I must leave you, 
Julia, I care not to live. Go to your father —let him briug 
(he executioner—you will see that I will not shrink from the 
defiling halter and the cruel death — nay, that I will smile at 
their approach, when I am once assured that I can not live for 
you.” 

“And you can not!” said the maiden, in sad but firm accents. 
“ You must forget that thought, Clifton—that wish — if, indeed, 
it be your wish. You must forget me, as it shall now be the 
chief task of my life to forget you.” 

“And can you, Julia — can you forget me, after those hours 
of joy—those dear walks, and the sweet delights of so many 
precious and never-to-be-forgotten meetings ? Can you forget 
them, Julia? Nay, can you desire to forget them? If you 
can — if such be, indeed, your desire — then death shall be 
doubly welcome — death in any form. But I cannot believe 
it, Julia—I will not. I remember—but no ! I will not remind 
you — I will not seek to remind you, when you declare your 
desire to forget. Why have you sought me here, Julia ? Know 
you not what I am ? have you not been told what the world 
calls me—what the malice of my cruel fortune has compelled 
me to become ? Have you not heard ? must I tell you that I 
am—” 

“Hush!” she exclaimed, in faltering and expostulating ac¬ 
cents; “say it not, Clifton — say it not. If, indeed, it be true, 
as they told me—” 

“ They have told you, then, Julia ? your father has told you ? 
and, oh, joy of my heart! you ask of me if what they have said 
to you can be true. You doubt—you can not believe it of me 
You shall not believe it—” 

“ Then it is not true, Clifton ?” cried the maiden eagerly, ad¬ 
vancing as she spoke, while the tear which glistened in her 
eyes took from her whole features the glow of that joy and 
hope which had sprung up so suddenly in her bosom, “ They 


388 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


have slandered you when they pronouuced you the associate 
of these outlaws; it is a wanton, a malicious falsehood, which 
you can easily disprove? I knew it — I thought it from the 
first, Clifton; and yet, when my father told me, and told me 
with such assurances, with such solemn looks and words, and 
upon such evidence — ah ! Edward, forgive me, when I confess 
to you I could not doubt what I yet dreaded and trembled to 
believe. But you deny it, Edward; you will prove it to my 
father’s conviction to be false; you will cleanse yourself from 
this polluting stigma, and I feel, I hope, we shall be happy yet. 
My father—” 

The chilling accents of her lover’s voice recalled her from the 
hopeful dream which her young heart began to fancy. He 
dashed the goblet of delight from the parting lips which were 
just about to quaff from its golden circle. 

“Alas, Julia, it is only too true! your father has told you 
but the truth. Bitter is the necessity that makes me say so 
much; but, I will not deceive you; indeed, if he told you all, 
he must have told you that I came of my own free will to un¬ 
deceive him. My own lips pronounced to him my own fault, 
and, humbling as its consciousness is to me, I must declare that, 
in avowing my connection with these wretched associates, 1 
have avowed the extent of my errors, though not of my suffer¬ 
ings. Thank God ! I have taken part in none of their crimes ; 
I have shared in none of their spoils; my hands are free from 
any stain save that which they have received from grasping 
theirs in fellowship. This, I well know, is a stain too much, 
and the contact of my hands would only defile the purity of 
yours. Yet, could I tell you the story of wo and suffering which 
drove me to this miserable extremity, you would pity me, Julia, 
if you could not altogether forgive. But wherefore should I 
tell you this ?” 

“Wherefore!” was the moaning exclamation of the maiden, 
as the youth briefly paused in his speech, “wherefore? — it 
avails us nothing! Yet, I will believe you, Clifton ; I must be¬ 
lieve that you have been driven to this dreadful communion, if 
I would not sink under the shame of my own consciousness. I 
believe you, Edward — I believe you, and I pity you—from 
my very soul I pity you. But I can no more: let us part now 


ANOTHER VICTIM. 


389 


Leave me—fly, while there is yet time ! My father returns in 
the morning, and I fear that his former regard for you will not 
be sufficient to save you from the punishment which he thinks 
due to your offences. Indeed, he will even be more strict and 
severe because of the imposition which he thinks you have prac¬ 
tised upon him—” 

“ And upon you, Julia : you say nothing of that.” 

“ Nothing! because it should weigh nothing with me at such 
a moment. I feel not the scorn which you have put upon me, 
Edward, in the loss which follows it.” 

“ Blessed, beloved spirit! and I, too, must feel the loss; and 
such a loss ! Oh, blind, base fool that I was, to suffer the pang 
and the apprehension of a moment to baffle the hopes and the 
happiness of a life ! Ah, Julia, how can I fly ? how can I leave 
you, knowing what you are, and not forgetting that you have 
loved me, worthless as I am V* 

“No more of this, Edward,” replied the maiden, quickly 
withdrawing her hand from the grasp which his own had pas¬ 
sionately taken upon it—“no more of this; it will be your 
policy, as it shall be my duty, to forget all this. We must strive 
to forget — we must forget each other. It will be my first prayer 
always to be able to forget what it must only be my constant 
shame and sorrow to remember.” 

“And why your shame and sorrow, Julia? I tell you that, 
in connecting myself most unhappily with these wretched peo¬ 
ple, I have abstained from their offences. If they have robbed 
the traveller, I have taken none of their spoils; if they have 
murdered their victim, his blood is not upon my hands. I have 
been their victim, indeed, rather than their ally. They forced 
me — a dire necessity forced me — into their communion, in 
which I have been a witness rather than a partaker.” 

“Alas! Edward, I am afraid the difference is but too slight 
to be made use of in your defence. Did you witness to con¬ 
demn and disapprove ? did you seek to prevent or repair ? did 
you stay the uplifted hand which struck down the traveller ? 
did you place yourself on his side to sustain and help him in 
the moment of his deadly and last peril ? My father would have 
taken this part — his lessons have always taught me that such 
was the part always of the brave and honorable gentleman. If 


390 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


you have taken this part, Edward; if you can prove to him 
that you have taken this part—” 

She paused. The criminal shrunk from her while she spoke, 
and covered his face with his hands, while he murmured hoarse¬ 
ly, and in bitter, broken accents— 

“ I have not. I have seen him robbed of his little wealth 
I have seen him stricken down by the unexpected blow; and 1 
have not lifted voice or weapon in his defence. Basely have I 
witnessed the deeds of baseness, and fittingly base should be 
my punishment. And yet, Julia, I could say that—will you 
hear me V* he demanded, seeing that she turned away. 

“ Speak, speak,” she murmured faintly. 

“Yes, Julia, I have that to say which would go far to make 
you forget and forgive my weakness—my crime.” 

“Alas ! Edward, I fear not. There is nothing—” 

“Nothing! nay, Julia, you care not to hear my defence! 
you are indifferent whether I live or die—whether they prove 
me guilty or innocent of crime !” said he, with a bitter manner 
of reproach. She answered with a heart-touching meekness: 

“And yet I come even now to save your life. I throw aside 
the fears and delicacy of my sex — I seek you at midnight, 
Edward — I seek you but to save. Does this argue indiffer¬ 
ence?” 

“To save my life! Oh, Julia, bethink you for a moment 
what a precious boon this is to one of whom you rob everything 
which made life dear, at the very moment when you profess to 
save it. This is a mockery—a sad, a cruel mockery! Let 
them take the life, if they will: you will see how that boon is 
valued by me, to which you offer to prove that you are not in¬ 
different. You will see how readily I can surrender the life 
which the withdrawal of your love has beggared — which the 
denial of your esteem has embittered for ever!” 

“Ah, Edward, speak not thus! Wherefore would you force 
me to say that my love is not to be denied nor my esteem with¬ 
held, by a will, or in an instant ?” 

“And you do still love—you will promise, Julia, to esteem 
me yet—” 

“No! I will promise nothing, Edward — nothing. I will 
strive only to forget you; and though J promise not myself to 


ANOTHER VICTIM. 


391 


be successful in the effort, duty requires that it should yet be 
made. Go, now. Let us part, and for ever ! My father and 
his guests are all gone; there is none to interrupt you in your 
flight. Fly — fly far, Edward, I pray you. Let us not meet 
again, since nothing but pain could come from such a meeting.” 

“ But, Julia, will you not promise me that if I can acquit my¬ 
self worthily, you will once more receive me V* 

“ I can not. My father’s will must determine mine, Edward; 
since it is to his judgment only that I can refer, to determine 
what is worthy in the sight of men and what is not. Were I 
to yield to my affections this decision, I should, perhaps, care 
nothing for your offences; I should deem you no offender; and 
Love would blindly worship at an altar from which Truth would 
turn away in sorrow and reproach. Urge me not further, Ed¬ 
ward, on this painful subject. Solemnly I declare to you, that, 
under no circumstances henceforward, can I know you, unless by 
permission of my father.” 

Eberly strode away, with a spasmodic effort, to another part 
of the chamber. His emotions left him speechless for a while. 
When he returned to her, his articulation was still imperfect; 
and it was only by great resolution that he made himself intel¬ 
ligible at last: — 

“ I will vex you no more. I will be to you, Julia, nothing— 
even as you wish. I will leave you; and when next you hear 
of me, you will weep, bitterly weep ; not, perhaps, that you have 
sent me from you in scorn, but that I was not wholly worthy of 
that love which you were once happy to bestow upon me.” 

He passed her as he spoke these words, and, before she could 
fix any one of the flitting and confused fancies in her mind, he 
had left the apartment, and her ear could readily distinguish his 
footsteps, as, without any of the precautions of the fugitive, 
trembling for his life, he deliberately descended the stairs. She 
grasped the post of the door, and hung on it for support. Her 
strength, which had sustained her throughout the interview, was 
about to leave her. When she ceased to hear his retreating 
steps, she recovered herself sufficiently to reach her chamber; 
where, after locking carefully her door, she threw herself, almost 
without life, upon her bed, and gave vent to those emotions 
which now, from long restraint, like the accumulated torrents 


392 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


of the mountain, threatened in their flow to break down all bar 
riers, and overwhelm the region which they were meant to in¬ 
vigorate and refresh. One bitter sentence of hopelessness alone 
escaped her lips; and the unsyllabled moaning which followed 
it attested the depths of these sorrows which she had so long 
and so nobly kept in check : — 

“ He leaves me—I have seen him for the last time—I have 
heard his departing footsteps — departing for ever ! Hark ! it 
is the tread of a horse. It is his. He flies—he is safe from 
harm. He will be free, he will be happy, and I—0 my father 
— I am desolate !” 


CONCLUSION. 


898 


CHAPTER LIII. 

CONCLUSION. 

-“ If thou couldst redeem me 

With anything but death, I think I should 
Consent to live.”— The Traitor. 

Meanwhile, we sped toward our place of rendezvous. We 
reached it, as we had calculated, in sufficient season. The whole 
party was assembled at the “ Blind,” according to arrangement, 
and within the limited hour; and, for a brief period after our 
reunion, nothing was to be heard but the hum of preparation 
for the anticipated strife. Our weapons, as before stated, were 
of a motley description. But they were all effective; at least 
we resolved that they should be made so. Leaving as little to 
accident as possible, we reloaded and reprimed our firearms, put 
in new flints where we could do so, and girded ourselves up for 
the contest with the cool considerateness of men who are not 
disposed to shrink back from the good work to which they have 
so far put their hands. Encouraged by the feeling and energy 
of Colonel Grafton, who was very much beloved among them, 
there was not one of the party who did not throw as much per¬ 
sonal interest into the motives for his valor as entered either 
into Grafton’s bosom or mine. 

When we were all ready, we divided ourselves into three 
bodies, providing thus an assailing force for the three known 
outlets of the outlaws’ retreat. One of these bodies was led by 
Grafton, and, under his lead, and by his side, I rode. To two 
sturdy farmers of the neighborhood, who were supposed to be 
more conversant with the place than the rest, the other divis¬ 
ions were given ; and it was arranged that our attack upon the 
three designated points should be as nearly simultaneous as 
possible. The darkness of the forest — the difficulty of deter- 

17 * 



394 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


mining and equalizing the several distances—the necessity of 
proceeding slowly and heedfully, in order to avoid giving alarm 
— and other considerations and difficulties of like nature and 
equal moment — rendered our advance tedious and protracted; 
and, though we had not more than two miles to cover after sep¬ 
arating at the “ Blind,” yet the gray streaks of the early dawn 
were beginning to vein the hazy summits in the east before we 
reached the point of entrance which had been assigned us. 

The morning was cold and cloudy, and through the misty 
air sounds were borne rapidly and far. We were forced to con¬ 
tinue our caution as we proceeded. When we reached the val¬ 
ley, the porch, as it were, to the home among the hills where 
the robbers had found their refuge, we came to a dead halt. 
There were slight noises from within the enclosure which an¬ 
noyed us, and we paused to listen. They were only moment¬ 
ary, however, and we rode slowly forward, until the greater 
number of our little party were fairly between the two hills. 
In my anxiety, I had advanced a horse’s length beyond Colonel 
Grafton, by whose side I had before ridden. We were just about 
to emerge from the passage into the area, when the indistinct 
figure of a man started up, as it were, from beneath the very 
hoofs of my horse. I had nearly ridden over him, for the day 
was yet too imperfect to enable us to distinguish between ob¬ 
jects not in motion. He had been asleep, and was, most prob¬ 
ably, a sentinel. As he ran, he screamed at the loudest pitch 
of his voice; the probability is, that in his surprise he had left 
his weapon where he had lain, and had no other means of 
alarming his comrades, and saving them from the consequences 
of his neglectful watch. In the midst of his clamors, I silenced 
him. I shot him through the back as he ran, not five steps in 
front of my horse, seeking to ascend the hill to the right of us. 
He tumbled forward, and lay writhing before our path, but 
without a word or moan. At this moment, the thought pos¬ 
sessed me, that it was John Hurdis whom I had shot. I shiv¬ 
ered involuntarily with the conviction, and in my mind I felt a 
busy voice of reproach, that reminded me of our poor mother. 
I strove to sustain myself, by referring to his baseness, and to 
his deserts, yet I felt sick at heart the while. I had the stran¬ 
gest curiosity to look into the face of the victim, but for worlds 


CONCLUSION. 


395 


X would not then have done so. It was proposed that we should 
examine the body by one of the men behind me. It was a voice 
of desperation with which I shouted in reply :— 

“No—no examination! We have no time for that !” 

“True!” said Grafton, taking up the words. “We must 
think of living, not dead enemies. This shot will put the gang 
in motion. We must rush on them at once, if we hope to do 
anything, and the sooner we go forward the better.” 

He gave the word at this moment, which I seconded with a 
fierce shout, which was half-intended to overcome and scare 
away my own obtrusive fancies. 

“Better,” I said to myself—“better that I should believe 
John Hurdis to be already slain, than that I should think the 
duty yet to be done. He must perish, and I feel that it will be 
an easier deed to slay him while he is unknown, regarding him 
merely as one of the common enemy.” 

These self-communings—indeed, the whole events which 
had occasioned them — were all the work of a moment. I had 
fired the pistol under the impulse which seemed to follow the 
movement of the victim, as closely as if it had been a certain 
consequence of it. In another instant we rushed headlong into 
the valley, just as sounds of fright and confusion reached us from 
one of the opposite entrances, which had been assigned the other 
parties. There was now no time for unnecessary reflections— 
the moment for thought and hesitation had gone by, and the 
blood was boiling and bounding in my veins, with all the ar¬ 
dor and enthusiasm of boyhood. Wild cries of apprehension 
and encouragement reached us from various quarters, and we 
could see sudden forms rushing out of the bushes, and from be¬ 
tween the hollows where they had slept; and with the sight of 
them, our men dashed off in various directions, and divided in 
pursuit. Colonel Grafton and myself advanced in like manner, 
toward a group consisting of three persons, who seemed disposed 
to seek, rather than fly, from us. A few bounds brought us near 
enough to discover in one of these, the person of Matthew 
Webber. 

The twc deadly enemies were now within a few steps of each 
other; ana, resolving to spare Colonel Grafton the encounter 
with a man who had professed such bitter malice toward him, 


396 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


and such a blood-thirsty and unrelenting hate, I put spurs to 
my horse, and, with earnest efforts, endeavored to put myself 
between them; but my object was defeated, and I was soon 
taught to know that I required all my address to manage my 
own particular opponent. 

This was the man whom we have before seen as the emissary 
of the brotherhood, at the habitation of Pickett, and, subsequent¬ 
ly, when I left the encampment, ostensibly as the spy upon 
Eberly. This fellow seemed to understand my object, for he 
put himself directly in my way, and, when not three steps dis¬ 
tant, discharged his pistol at my head. How he came to miss 
me, I know not. It would appear impossible that a man, re¬ 
solved and deliberate as he certainly showed himself then and 
elsewhere to be, should have failed to shoot me at so small a 
distance. But he did; and, without troubling myself at that 
moment to demand how or why, I was resolved not to miss him. 
I did not. 

But my bullet, though more direct than his, was not fatal. I 
hit him in the shoulder of the right arm, from the hand of which 
he dropped the knife which he had taken from his bosom, the 
moment after firing his pistol. My horse was upon him in an¬ 
other instant; but, as if insensible to his wound, he grasped the 
bridle with his remaining hand, and, by extending his arm to its 
utmost stretch, he baffled me, for a brief space, in the effort 
which I was making to take a second shot. It was but a mo¬ 
ment only, however, that he did so. I suffered him to turn the 
head of the horse, and deliberately took a second pistol from my 
bosom. 

He sunk under the breast of the animal as he beheld it, still 
grasping him by the bridle, by swinging from which he was en¬ 
abled to avoid the tramplings of his feet. But I was not to be 
defeated. I threw myself from the animal, and shot the outlaw 
dead, before he could extricate himself from the position into 
which he had thrown himself. 

This affair took less time to act than I now employ to narrate 
it. Meanwhile, the strife between Colonel Grafton and Web¬ 
ber had proceeded to a fatal issue. I had beheld its progress 
with painful apprehensions, beholding the danger of the noble 
gentleman, without the ability to serve or succor him. On 


CONCLUSION. 


397 


their first encounter, the deliberate ruffian calmly awaited the 
bold assault of his foe, and, perhaps, feeling some doubt of his 
weapon, in aiming at the smaller object, or resolved to make 
sure of him though slow, he directed his pistol muzzle at the 
advancing steed, and put the bullet into his breast. The ani¬ 
mal tumbled forward, and Webber nimbly leaping to one side, 
avoided his crushing carcass, which fell over upon the very 
spot where the outlaw had taken his station. 

In the fall of the beast, as Webber had anticipated, Grafton 
became entangled. One of his legs was fastened under the ani¬ 
mal, and he lay prostrate and immovable for an instant, from 
the stunning effect of the fall. With a grim smile of triumph, 
Webber approached him, and when not three paces distant 
from his enemy, drew his pistol, but before he could fix the 
sight upon him, a fierce wild scream rang through the area, and 
in the next instant, when nothing beside could have saved Graf¬ 
ton, and when looking fearlessly at his advancing enemy, he 
momently expected the death which he felt himself unable to 
avoid, he beheld, with no less satisfaction and surprise, the fig¬ 
ure of the doubly fugitive Clifton bounding between them, to 
arrest the threatened shot. He came too late for this, yet he 
baffled the vengeance of the murderer. The bullet took effect 
in his own bosom, and he fell down between Grafton and Web¬ 
ber, expiating his errors and offences, whatever may have been 
their nature and extent, by freely yielding up his life to save 
that of one, who just before, as he imagined to the last, had sat 
in inflexible and hostile judgment upon his own. A faint smile 
illuminated his countenance a moment before his death, and he 
seemed desirous to turn his eyes where Grafton lay, but to this 
task he was unequal. Once or twice he made an effort at. 
speech, but his voice sunk away into a gurgling sound, and, at 
length, terminated in the choking rattle of death. 

Webber, while yet the breath fluttered upon the lips of his 
victim, strode forward, with one foot upon his body, to repeat 
the assault upon Grafton, which had been baffled thus, but be¬ 
fore he could do this, he fell by an unseen hand. He was lev¬ 
elled to the earth, by a stroke from the butt of a rifle from 
behind, and despatched, in the heat of the moment, by a sec¬ 
ond blow from the hands of the sturdy forester who wielded it. 


398 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


We extricated Grafton from a situation which had been pro¬ 
ductive to him of so much peril, and addressed ourselves to a 
pursuit of the surviving outlaws who were scattered and flying 
on all hands. In this pursuit, it fell to my lot to inflict death, 
without recognising my victim at the time, upon the actual 
murderer of William Carrington. I saw a fellow skulk behind 
a bush, and shot him through it. That was Pickett. I only 
knew it when, in the afternoon of the day, we encountered his 
wife, with countenance seemingly unmoved, and wearing its 
general expression of rigid gravity, directing the burial of her 
miserable husband, whom a couple of negroes were preparing 
to deposite in a grave dug near the spot where he had fallen. 

But our toils were not ended. Seven of the outlaws had been 
killed outright, or so fatally wounded as to die very soon after. 
Two only were made prisoners; and we had started at least 
eight or ten more. These had taken flight in as many different 
directions, rendering it necessary that we should disperse our¬ 
selves in their pursuit. My blood had been heated by the 
affray to such a degree that I ceased to think. To go forward, 
to act, to shout, and strike, seemed now all that I could do; 
and these were performances through which my heart appeared 
to carry me with an ungovernable sensation of delight—a sen¬ 
sation cooled only when I reflected that the body of John Hur- 
dis had not yet been found—that we were in pursuit of the 
survivors, and that I had sworn by the grave of the hapless 
Emmeline Walker, to give no mercy to the murderers of my 
friend. My oath was there to impel me forward even should 
my heart fail me, and forward I went in the bloody chase; we 
urged, having a distant and imperfect view of two wretches, 
both mounted, and fleeing backward upon the Big Warrior. 
They had gone through the “ Blind,” and for a mile farther I 
kept them both in sight. At length, one disappeared, but I 
gained upon the other. Every moment brought the outlines 
of his person more clearly to my eye, and, at length, I could 
no longer resist the conviction that the fates had brought me 
to my victim. John Hurdis was before me. 

What would I not then have given to have found another ene¬ 
my. How gladly would I then have unsworn myself, and, could 
it be so, have given up the task of punishment to other persons. 


CONCLUSION. 


399 


There was a sound of horsemen behind me, and at one moment, 
i. almost resolved to turn aside and leave to my comrades the 
solemn duty which now seemed so especially to devolve itself 
upon me. But there was a dread in my mind that such a move¬ 
ment might be misconstrued, and the feeling be taken for fear, 
which was in strict truth the creature of conscience. The con¬ 
viction grew inevitable that the bloody duty of the executioner 
was mine. The horse of my brother stumbled; the fates had 
delivered him into my hands — he lay on the earth before me; 
and, with a bursting heart, but a resolved spirit, I leaped down 
on the earth beside him. He had weapons, but he had no 
power to use them. I would have given worlds had he been able 
to do so. Could he have shown fight—I could have slain him 
without scruple ; but when, at my approach, he raised his hands 
appealingly, and shrieked out a prayer of mercy, I felt ashamed 
of the duty I had undertaken. I felt the brutal blood-thirstiness 
of taking life under such circumstances — the victim but a few 
paces off—using no weapons, and pleading with a shrieking 
desperate voice for that life, which seemed at the same time too 
despicable to demand or deserve a care. 

And yet, when I reflected that to grant his prayer and take 
him alive, was not to save his life, but to subject him to a death, 
in the ignominy of which I too must share, I felt that he could 
not live. I rushed upon him with the extended pistol, but was 
prevented from using it by a singular vision, in the sudden ap¬ 
pearance of the poor idiot daughter of Pickett. She came 
from the door of a little cottage by the road-side, which I had 
not before seen, and to which, it is more than probable, that 
John Hurdis was bending his steps, as to a place of refuge. 
To my horror and surprise she called me by name, and thus 
gave my brother the first intimation which he had of the person 
to whom he prayed. How this idiot come to discover that 
which nobody besides had suspected, was wonder enough to 
me; and while I stood, astounded for the instant, she ran for 
ward like a thoughtless child, crying as she came:— 

“Oh, Mr. Richard, don’t you shoot—it’s Master John — it’s 
your own dear brother—don’t you shoot — don’t.” 

“Brother!” cried the miserable wretch, with hoarse and 
husky tones, followed by a chuckle of laughter, which indicated 


400 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


the latent hope which had begun to kindle in his breast at this 
discovery. 

“ Away—I know you not, villain,” was my cry, as I recoiled 
from him, and again lifted the pistol in deadly aim. The idiot 
girl rushed between us, and rising on tiptoe, sought to grasp 
the extended hand, which I was compelled to raise above her 
reach. 

“ Run, Master John, run for dear life,” was her cry, as she 
clung upon my shoulders. “ Run to the bushes, while I hold 
Mr. Richard—I’ll hold him tight—he can’t get away from me. 
I’ll hold him tight enough while you run.” 

The miserable dastard obeyed her counsel; and while cling¬ 
ing, now to my arms, and now to my legs, she baffled my move¬ 
ments, and really gave him an opportunity, which a cool, brave 
fellow would have turned to account, and most probably saved 
himself. He, in his alarm, actually rushed into the woods in 
the very direction of the pursuit. Had he possessed the spirit 
of a man, he would have leaped upon his horse, or upon mine, 
and trusted to the chase a second time. Hardly a minute had 
elapsed from his disappearance in the woods, and when I had 
just extricated myself from the clutches of the girl, which I 
did with as little violence as possible, when I heard one shot 
and then another. I resumed my horse and hurried to the 
spot whence the sounds came. One of our party, who had 
taken the same route with me, had overtaken the fugitive, and 
had fired twice upon him as he fled. My voice trembled when 
I asked the trooper, as he emerged from the bush, if the outlaw 
was dead. 

“As a door-nail!” was the reply. I stopped for no more; 
but turning the head of my horse again, I renewed the pursuit 
of the second fugitive, whom I had first followed. My com¬ 
panion kept with me, and we went forward at full speed. As 
we rode we heard the faint accents of the idiot girl crying in 
the woods for “Master John;” as, here and there, she wound 
her way through its recesses, seeking for him who could no 
longer answer to her call. The sounds were painful to me, and 
I was glad to get out of hearing of them. I had now none of 
those scruples in the pursuit which had beset me before. My 
trial was over; and fervently in my heart did I thank God, 


CONCLUSION. 


401 


and the stout fellow who rode beside me, that my hand had not 
stricken the cruel blow which was yet demanded by justice. I 
urged my horse to the utmost and soon left my companion be¬ 
hind. I felt that I must gain upon the footsteps of the fugitive 
There were few horses in the country of better bottom, and 
more unrelaxing speed than mine. He proved himself on this 
occasion. Through bog and branch, lie sped; over hill, through 
dale, until the road opened in double breadth upon us. The 
trees grew more sparsely—the undergrowth was more dense in 
patches, and it was evident that we had nearly reached the 
river. In another moment I caught a glimpse, not of it only, 
but of the man I pursued ; and he was Foster. He looked round 
once, and I fancied I could detect a smile playing on his lips. 
I felt loth to trouble this strange fellow. He was a generous 
outlaw, and possessed many good qualities. He had given me 
freely of his money, though counterfeit, and had shown me a 
degree of kindness and consideration, which made me hesitate, 
now that I had brought him to the post. I concluded it to be 
impossible that he should escape me, and I summoned him with 
loud tones to surrender, under a promise which I made him, of 
using all my efforts and influence to save him from the conse¬ 
quences of the laws. But he laughed aloud, and pointed to the 
river. 

“ He will not venture to swim it surely,” was my thought on 
the instant. A few moments satisfied my doubts. There was 
a pile of cotton, consisting of ten or fifteen bags, lying on the 
brink of the river, and ready for transportation to market when¬ 
ever the boats came by. He threw himself from his horse as 
he reached the bags, and tumbling one of them from the pile 
into the stream, he leaped boldly upon it, and when I reached 
the same spot, the current had already carried him full forty 
yards on his way, down the stream.* I discharged my pistol 
at him but without any hope of touching him at that distance. 
He laughed good-naturedly in return, and cried out— 

“ Ah, Williams, you are a sad dog, and something more ot a 
hypocrite than the parson. I am afraid you will come to no 
good, if you keep on after this fashion; but, should you ever 

* This is a fact; such a mode of escape would not readily suggest itself to 
a romancer’s invention, but it did to that of a very great rogue. 


402 


RICHARD HURDIS. 


get into a difficulty like this of mine, I am still sufficiently your 
friend to hope that you may find as good a float. You can say 
to the owner of this cotton—a man named Baxter, who, I sup¬ 
pose, is one of your party this morning — that he will find it 
some five miles below; I shall not want it much farther. 
Should he lose it, however, it’s as little as a good patriot—as 
it is said he is — should be ready at any time to lose for his 
country. Farewell—though it be for a season only. We shall 
meet some day in Arkansas, where I shall build a church in 
the absence of better business, and perhaps make you a convert. 
Farewell.” 

Colonel Grafton came up in time to hear the last of this dis¬ 
course ; and to wonder and laugh at the complacent impudence 
and ready thoughts of the outlaw. Foster pulled his hat, with 
a polite gesture, when he had finished speaking, and turned his 
eyes from us in the direction which his strange craft was ta¬ 
king. 

“ Shall I give him a shot, colonel V 9 demanded one of the 
foresters, who had come up with Grafton, lifting his rifle as he 
spoke. 

“No, no!” was the reply—“let him go. He is a clever- 
scoundrel and may one day become an honest man. We have 
done enough of this sort of business this morning, to keep the 
whole neighborhood honest for some years. Let us now return, 
my friends, and bury those miserable creatures out of sight. 
Hurdis !” He took me suddenly aside from the rest, and said : 

“ Hurdis, there is a girl back here, who says that you have 
killed your own brother. She affirms it positively.” 

“ She speaks falsely, Colonel Grafton,” was my reply; “ I am 
r.ot guilty of a brother’s blood; and yet I may say to you that 
she has spoken a portion of the truth. A brother of mine has 
been killed among the outlaws. Guilty or not guilty of their 
offences, he pays the penalty of bad company. If you please 
we will speak of him no more.” 


I had been married to Mary Easterby about three years, 
■when one day who should pay us a visit but Colonel Grafton 
and the lovely Julia, the latter far more lovely than ever. Her 



CONCLUSION. 


m 


Borrows had sublimed her beauty, and seemed to give elevation 
to all her thoughts and actions. The worm was gnawing at her 
heart, and its ravages were extending to her frame; but her 
cheek, though pale, was exquisitely transparent, and her eye, 
though always sad, was sometimes enlivened with the fires of 
an intense spirituality which seemed to indicate the approxima¬ 
tion of her thoughts to the spheres and offices of a loftier home 
than ours. She lived but a year after this visit, and died in a 
sweet sleep, which lasted for several hours, without being dis¬ 
turbed by pain, and from which she only awakened in another 
world. May we hope that the loves were happy there which 
had been so unblessed on earth. 


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